


Hope in Front of Me

by BlamFicAddict



Category: Glee
Genre: Blam, Bromance, Dalton Academy Fight Club, Heteroflexibility, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 18:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 64,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4797149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlamFicAddict/pseuds/BlamFicAddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the months between Seasons 5 and 6, Kurt called off their engagement. Blaine found himself with nowhere to go except back to Lima, and to his best friend Sam. But when Sam notices the bruises on Blaine's body, he can't help but wonder how Blaine has been dealing with his depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Exactly one song will be presented in each chapter. A hyperlink will be provided for those who may want the audio while reading. As for the rest of the story, I'll try to stick with as much aired canon as I can remember.
> 
> Disclaimer: Neither the characters of Glee, nor the lyrics of any music used in this story belong to me.

  


“What changed?”

Blaine Anderson hadn't prepared for the direction this conversation had taken. He'd expected a nice dinner. After trudging through the pouring rain, riding the crowded subway with hundreds of wet, angry pedestrians, he'd gone out of his way to do something nice for his fiancé. They'd been talking for weeks about having their wedding reception at the Mercer Kitchen, an amazing restaurant in New York which he and Kurt loved when they'd dined there. Blaine didn't much care where their reception was held but Kurt had pointedly mentioned that he wanted it, and had been told that they were not available on Labor Day. After working some of the Anderson charm and skillfully throwing Congressman Burt Hummel's name into the mix, Blaine had convinced the restaurant owner to help them out. 

But when Blaine tried to communicate the good news to his fiancé, it was like Kurt Hummel didn't want to hear it. Without even a greeting Kurt turned a disdainful eye on him, then leapt down his throat about how he'd arrived late for their dinner date and how exhausting it was to be around him.

“Was it something that I did? B-because... you know that I love you. I love you so much, and I know we can make this work!” Voice straining, tears threatening a torrent as intense as the rain falling around them, the entire situation felt almost unreal; like a scene in a movie. But it wasn't. This was happening. It was real.

Exasperated, Kurt replied, “I love you too, but we're kids! Look we had a great run, but let's just call it quits before we completely hate each other.” The words broke through every defense he had and pulverized his heart. The air seemed suddenly too thick to breathe, his chest collapsing, his stomach twisting. It was difficult to maintain control of his own body. He couldn't believe he had lost Kurt again. He couldn't do anything to fix it, again. He won't make it through this, not again. And it was his fault, again.

“You've gotta stop villainizing yourself,” Sam had told him back in high school, the first time he and Kurt broke up. That moment had crystallized his relationship with his best friend. Remembering the comfort Sam had offered now helped him to regroup. “You're one of the good guys,” Sam had reminded him then.

This was not his fault. He and Kurt had done this to themselves together, and they shared the blame together. They had tried to fix it, so if they had failed it was because it was not possible. Or maybe because they just didn't want to anymore. Whichever it was, wasn't important now. Come to think of it, maybe _Kurt_ didn't want to fix it. 

Kurt was right, it was exhausting to be together since he'd moved back into the Bushwick apartment. Exponentially harder than his first months in New York, before he and Sam had moved into their friend Mercedes' apartment. Had he and Kurt really spent _three hours_ in a heated rage over Kurt's inability to wash the toothpaste from his face before wiping dry with their shared facial towel? After the first hour Blaine had given up trying to convince Kurt that it would take just a swipe of two wet fingers, and instead switched tactics: Separate towels. That had spawned an additional two hours of arguing over the drought in California and how all of Blaine's suggestions involved using more water or generating more laundry, while Kurt remained intransigent. Over his crusty, toothpaste-covered towel. It was irrational and didn't need to be that difficult.

For weeks, Blaine had been making all of the wedding arrangements based exclusively on what he thought would make Kurt happy. They had discussed since high school what they'd want if they ever married. But when it came time to sit down and make plans, where they would have the reception for example, Kurt always had some excuse to leave the hard work up to Blaine. His fiancé had become purposefully remote and distant while, as usual, Blaine tried harder and harder to earn his forgiveness and please him.

Taking a deep breath he pulled himself together, then turned his most hurt and pained glare at the man he loved. “I will never forgive you for this.” Uttered with finality, Blaine had gotten soaked with rain in his rush to escape. He neither cared nor could be bothered to go back for his umbrella.

  
[**Here We Go (Mat Kearney)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIZaP7CtFRA)

Did you close your eyes as you walked away?  
Did I get too close in the pouring rain?  
If there's one more chance for us here tonight,  
I'll take the long way 'round this time.

We sing  
Oh love, it's easy if you don't try to please me  
If you don't wanna see me anymore  
We sing out  
Here we go again  
I know how I lost a friend  
We go 'round and 'round again

Bitter is the kiss that says goodbye  
I can hear it in your voice, I see it in your eyes  
'Cause we've been this low and we've been 'round this bend  
I don't wanna lose you all over again

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The first time his doorbell rang, it barely registered to his sleep-bogged ears. The second time was enough to prompt one eye to open just wide enough to focus on the displayed numbers 02:23 on his bedside alarm clock. “Damned kids,” Sam Evans mumbled drowsily, closing his eye and covering his head with a pillow.

Most times the Richelieu Apartments was a tranquil haven in Lima. A simple, two floor building consisting of less than a hundred units, the complex lacked a parking garage (covered outdoor parking only) but sported an indoor pool and tennis courts. It was surrounded by flat, well-kept grass fields and quiet, single family homes. Accessible by only one street, the residential area lacked anything remotely resembling rush hour traffic. None of the honking horns, jammed cars, angry bus drivers, or screaming jaywalkers running to catch the subway he'd dealt with in New York. Sam had moved in a few weeks ago, after he'd decided the metropolis was too crowded, fast-paced, and crime-ridden for his liking. He'd gladly tolerate the pranks of a couple kids, over all that.

A few blissfully silent moments later, Sam's brain had just recognized the sound of pattering rain outside his window when lightning flashed through the blinds. At the same time, he jumped with surprise as his phone beeped and vibrated abruptly on the other side of his dark bedroom. It sat atop his dresser, rattling against the wood more loudly than the low rumble of thunder that rolled into his room. Whispering an exhausted, “What the fuuuuuckk...” to no one in particular, Sam got out of bed and squinted at the excruciatingly bright message displayed on the screen of his iPhone.

**Nightbird, 02:30.** Are you awake?

If it had been any other person, Sam would have gone back to sleep. He left it on in case of emergencies, or the occasional sexy pic that his ex-girlfriend, Britt, would send him after too many drinks—intending to send them to Santana, but accidentally swiping his name instead. Unfortunately this was not the latter, and he couldn't just ignore the message until morning. If his best friend needed him to be awake at this time of night, it meant something was wrong.

**Blonde Chameleon, 02:31.** wsup bromo  
**Nightbird, 02:31.** Can I come in?

Grumbling another, “What the fuuuuuckk...” Sam set his phone down and began to stumble through the darkness of his apartment. He kicked something that wasn't where he expected it to be, and winced as he accidentally bumped the corner of his couch. Only when he reached the front door did he realize that he'd forgotten to cover himself up and was clad only in a set of dark gray Treasure Trailz boxer briefs. But if Blaine was outside, Sam couldn't leave him out there in the cold. Not long enough to actually find pants, not when he was already at the door, and especially not when he could hear the rain outside hardening.

He opened the door slowly. The porch light glittered off the top of Blaine's dripping-yet-still-perfectly-styled hair. Sam became instantly self-conscious about his bed head and ran a quick hand to push down his own hair, while also knowing that his friend wouldn't judge or joke (much). This was how he greeted his short, gay best friend, whom he hadn't seen in several weeks: with tired eyes, messy hair, and virtually naked.

“Hi Sam,” Blaine greeted, jaw dropped only slightly as he tried not to notice Sam's state of undress. If Sam saw an appreciative glint in his friend's gaze, it was dampened by the frown on Blaine's lips.

“Blaine? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?”

“I'm sorry.” The shorter man averted his gaze, his head turning respectfully from Sam's nudity. It was when Blaine whispered a second time, “I'm sorry,” that Sam noticed the tears slipping from Blaine's eyes amid the rain dripping from his hair.

He grabbed Blaine and pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around his friend's shoulders in a firm hug and resting his cheek on Blaine's head. Blaine's fingernails dug into the back of his shoulders, hard but not painful. When Blaine began softly sobbing against his chest Sam brought him inside and closed the door, never once letting him go.

They stood in his doorway for an eternity, neither saying any coherent words. Sam held his friend tightly, thumbs lightly caressing circles on Blaine's back as the wet boy cried. A billion questions raced through his mind and wiped any away any trace of sleep left on his mind. _What's wrong? What had Kurt done? Who had died? What exploded? Who had run over his dog? Does Blaine even have a dog? What can I do to make it better? Who do I get to destroy? Who dies tonight?!_ An inexplicable empathy made his eyes tear up briefly as well, tempering the vicious, protective need to exact justice on whoever or whatever had hurt his best friend. To teach them that Captain America doesn't let anyone get away with touching Iron Man, or Bucky Barnes.

Sam had felt like this twice in his immediate recollection. The first was when Unique had been bullied during Twerk Week of their senior year of high school. The second, when Kurt had been bashed in New York and ended up in the hospital. Both were his friends—he was always protective of his friends—but he was closer with no one more than Blaine Anderson. One way he knew he'd grown as a person since then was that, while the satisfaction of physical vengeance was still appealing, Sam appreciated the value of emotional comfort just as much if not more.

It's 2:30 am and Lima is a two hour drive from the Columbus airport. _Blaine must be exhausted._

Sam slowly and carefully began rocking Blaine in the darkness, maneuvering them towards his bedroom. He seemed to have stopped crying, but still gripped tightly to Sam. Again without saying a word, the taller man grabbed the first thing he could find that would help dry his friend's hair: a dirty shirt thrown carelessly on top of his dresser. When Sam began rubbing it on his head, messing his hair up, Blaine looked up at him questioningly.

“Let's get you out of these wet clothes.”

Blaine was freezing and soaked, having apparently forgotten a coat—or any change of clothes for that matter. Sam peeled his friend's sweater from over his head, shoes and socks from his feet, with nothing but a blank stare in response. Blaine pushed his hands away as they took hold of the zipper on his pants, turned around, and took them off himself.

“Take this,” Sam insisted, spontaneously finding and wrapping his (dry) bath robe around his friend. At 5' 8” Blaine was four inches shorter in height, and less muscular, so he ended up looking like a sad child wearing the bigger man's clothes.

Blaine sat on his bed. “Can I stay here tonight? Just tonight, I promise.”

It hadn't been so long ago that Blaine last felt like a burden to be tolerated. Sam remembered it well, he'd been more involved in the ex-Glee clubber New York apartment drama than he'd cared for. The first time he'd ever known Blaine to feel that way happened after he'd broken up with Kurt. It had played a major part in the development of their epic Nightbird-Blonde Chameleon bromance. And just like that, Sam knew why Blaine was here. 

He pushed his pillows against the headboard of the bed, climbed on to lean back against them and pulled his best friend into a cuddling position, Blaine's head nestled into the nook of his shoulder. Arms curled around waists, and the entire weight of the world perched on his chest in the form of this defeated boy. 

“You can stay as long as you want.”

They stayed like that until the rain stopped falling. Sam eventually got a little chilly and pulled his blanket around them. For a split second, he wondered if his other male friends would feel comfortable holding another guy in bed. Artie? Ryder? Jake? Surely not. Sam was perfectly comfortable expressing any kind of physical affection with anyone, man or woman. But Blaine was gay, and used to be attracted to him. Did that make it different? Nah.

As Sam fell into the oblivion of his unconsciousness, Blaine whispered, “Your hair looks weird.”


	2. Your Guardian Angel

Blaine woke the next morning to the muffled sound of a subdued voice, accompanied by faint guitar chords. Light flooded between the blinds of a window that he didn't recognize, in a room that was completely unfamiliar. He panicked for a brief moment, eyes widening from where his head lay deeply embosomed in a pillow that was too soft. The only thing he recognized about the place at all was the scent; everything smelled like Sam. It hovered in the air, lingered on everything, familiar and comforting. It was the scent that brought the memory of his arrival at Sam's apartment bouncing back.

Blaine Anderson could still hear his ex-fiance's words as Kurt sharply declared that he no longer wanted to marry. The scene replayed itself incessantly in his mind, from the sound of Kurt's voice to the storm drenching his clothes. Not unlike how they had dampened the previous night, sitting on the cold stairs of the apartment complex as rain drizzled down from a dark sky.

He couldn't believe he was back in Lima, this city that held so many memories of Kurt. He would rather be at home with his parents in Westerville. Maybe if he'd been thinking straight, Blaine would have called before leaving New York to let them know he was coming home. Instead he had shown up at the door of his home, and found that his key no longer worked on the lock. A sad call to his mother revealed that his parents had changed the locks several weeks ago and were currently visiting his brother, Cooper. Of course they offered to fly back immediately to let him in for some good, home-cooked comfort. Blaine had, as usual, insisted he was fine and that they finish their visit. He would be here when they got back. Still not thinking straight, Blaine had driven for almost two hours from Westerville to Lima, seeking the one person whom he trusted to be there.

“It's okay...”

It took Blaine a few uncharacteristic seconds to realize that the voice that woke him belonged to Sam. He could barely hear from the other side of the bedroom door, not enough to understand every word, and certainly not enough to recognize the song. He debated staying in bed a while longer, feigning sleep so the outside world could forget about him a while longer. It wouldn't be fair to Sam to monopolize his room, though. He'd intruded and imposed at an outrageous hour, been fortunate that Sam had bothered to let him in. Courteous, gracious Blaine—useless, unwanted Blaine—resolved to thank his friend for the hospitality on his way to reserve a hotel room in Westerville.

When he got out of the bed, Blaine remembered with flushed cheeks that Sam had unclothed him and shrouded him in a huge cotton robe. His clothes were nowhere to be found, though, after a quick scan of the bed, floor, and the top of an oak dresser. He moved for the door, tying the robe closed so as not to parade in his boxers into his host's home.

The door opened directly into the living room of the apartment, which was not much larger than the bedroom. Window blinds had been raised completely, sunlight invading more brightly than the bedroom. Everywhere he looked the light was either consumed, or attacked his adjusting eyes. It absorbed into dark wooden shelves and the forest green fabric of a couch, lanced at him from a mirror and the glass television stand beneath a small TV. Everywhere, except one spot.

Sam sat by the window, picking the strings of his guitar. The light was radiant about him, aglow on the skin of his bare torso, flashing in green eyes as if he were fashioned of it. Eyes that locked onto his as he stepped into the room, his friend's voice soaring as he finished the song.

  
[**Your Guardian Angel (Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q7Em4fUOrZo)

'Cause I'm here for you  
Please don't walk away, and  
Please tell me, you'll stay  
Stay  
Use me as you will  
Pull my strings just for a thrill  
And I know, I'll be okay  
Though my skies are turning gray

I will never let you fall  
I'll stand up with you forever  
I'll be there for you through it all  
Even if saving you sends me to Heaven

Consciously fighting his jaw from dropping, Blaine asked, “Seriously, what's up with your hair?” as he noted the sunlight subsumed into a warm, brown halo over Sam's head.

“This is my natural hair color,” he said, smiling. “I don't really care much for the lemon juice anymore.”

Brows furrowed, it skipped on the edge of Blaine's memory that Sam had put lemon juice in his hair. He hadn't given it much thought when Kurt had mentioned this piece of Glee gossip, since he hadn't mentioned having any evidence to support the assumption. But Quinn Fabray had said something similar to Brittany, who'd mentioned it to Artie, who'd mentioned it to Tina. The topic had never come up during the years he'd known Sam, but now that he thought about it Blaine did think he'd seen Sam's hair becoming gradually darker. It had definitely gone from platinum-blonde to golden honey-blonde during high school, to more of a dirty caramel-blonde by the time his Treasure Trailz ad was published.

“It makes your face look pasty.” Staring purposefully at the shine of Sam's grin, Blaine did not allow himself to be disappointed that his friend wore pants this morning.

Unphased, Sam put his guitar down and walked past him with an affectionate punch to the arm. “Good morning to you, too, Sunshine.”

“Whatever, Brown Chameleon.”

“It's chestnut-blonde.”

“It's brow- 'chestnut-blonde?' Who are you?” Blaine followed him as he walked into the kitchen, but stopped in the archway. Sam laughed from behind the refrigerator door.

“Are you hungry? I made breakfast.”

“I can see that,” Blaine commented noncommittally, although he should have been impressed by the spread laid out on the counter. A plate of pancakes stood next to butter and a bottle of Mrs. Butterworths maple syrup. Beside them, sausage and bacon were stacked next to three different kinds of potatoes: hashbrowns, tater tots, and O'Brien. Hard-boiled eggs lay in a bowl between a large egg white scramble and several over-easy eggs, in front of a pitcher of freshly-squeezed orange juice and behind a pile of blueberry muffins. “Uh, when did you do all this?”

“Hey, I used to live with two working parents and two younger siblings, remember? I made the orange juice, muffins, and hard-boileds yesterday, the sausage and bacon-”

“Are they coming over? I can leave, just tell me where my clothes went.”

Sam walked over and put a hand on his shoulder, his voice soft. “Relax, bro. They're still in Kentucky, and I put your clothes in the dryer-”

“That sweater was Merino wool.”

“I have no idea what that means. Eat. So, I couldn't remember what you usually ate for breakfast other than coffee, and that period when you were obsessed with cronuts-” His ears perked at the mention of coffee, and Sam laughed. “Black with a crystal, coming up.”

“You know my coffee order.” The words almost made it out of his mouth, but Blaine stopped himself. He hadn't said those words in that particular order to anyone since Kurt. With a downtrodden sigh, he plopped himself down in a chair at the kitchen table as a mug of steaming, dark coffee appeared in his hand. A plate of food slid into view carrying a pancake with a smiley face cut out of it, the voids filled with syrup and a butter square for a nose. “I'm not hungry, Sam,” he said, but with a smile teasing his lips.

“Oh come on, dude. This is like half of my weekly paycheck here.” Blaine couldn't tell if his friend was exaggerating. Whether or not he was, it worked. Blaine reluctantly picked up a fork, cut a piece of the pancake, and ate it. He finished the pancake in silence, but Sam's strategy had its desired effect on him. Hunger kindled, Blaine left the table just long enough to top off his coffee, and grab a muffin and some sausage.

“I knew you'd go for the sausage,” Sam flirted in a deep voice, and this time Blaine did smile through the mouthful of meat he was chewing. The taller man inhaled his scrambled egg whites and crunched happily on bacon as he described his morning. He'd apparently already gone for a quick run and showered, peeking into the room while Blaine was still asleep to grab his clothes, before cooking. 

“Sorry if I woke you up. Jam time is usually after my morning run. The neighbors next door asked if I would hold off playing in the evenings for a while. They have a newborn infant, so I guess sleep is a priceless commodity.”

When he was finished, silence reigned in the room until all of the bacon was gone. Blaine wished he'd offered some comment to further the topic, though, because Sam broke the silence by asking the dreaded question. “So I'm totally glad to see you, bro, and of course you're welcome to stay here. But... are you gonna tell me what happened?”

And because their friendship had always been casually close, emotionally honest, and (in Santana's words) as open as a gutted pig at a Filipino family reunion, Blaine couldn't not confide everything to the most supportive person he'd ever known.

After their breakup, Kurt had been gracious enough not to kick Blaine out of their Bushwick apartment. He hadn't anyplace to go. Rachel had moved to Los Angeles. Mercedes had terminated the lease on her apartment when she left on tour. Artie's dorm room had been too small to accommodate Blaine and his belongings, and it was too late in the semester to apply for the dorms at NYADA. Pride prevented him from asking June Dolloway to put him up, and he had no other friends in New York—except for Elliot, and it wouldn't have felt at all appropriate to ask for help from Elliot. 

So Blaine and Kurt had continued to live together, but Kurt had made himself as scarce as possible with school, work, projects, and all of the other friends he'd made in the city. Not dissimilar to their first breakup, Kurt's life moved on unperturbed while Blaine had been left alone to fester in that giant apartment, with all the time in the world after Carmen Tibideaux had cut him from NYADA. Time spent convincing himself that if he had done more, done better, done differently, he could have kept them together. That he was neither needed nor wanted by anyone, and that no one would care if he vanished from existence. No one would even come looking for him. A momentary thought of suicide, lasting for all of five seconds, made Blaine pack up as much as he could into his suitcase and hop onto the first flight back to Ohio.

“My suitcase is in the car out front. I'm moving back in with my parents as soon as they get back from California.”

“What are you gonna do until then?”

Blaine played with the muffin wrapper, avoiding Sam's gaze. “I'll get a hotel room in Westerville. Don't worry, I'll be out of your hair as soon as my clothes are dry.” As he knew he would, Sam walked over to him and stole the wrapper from his hands. 

“You're absurd, you know that? Just stay here.” Before he could protest, Sam pulled him up from the chair and enveloped him in his strong arms again. “You're not a burden. You're my bromo, and I love you, and I've missed you, and I want you to stay with me.”

A heavy weight drained from every part of his body instantly, and he melted into his best friend's embrace. He had missed Sam so much. This person who made him laugh and shared so many of his interests; who he almost never fought with; with whom he could talk for hours or sit in comfortable silence; who always understood and accepted him; who supported him even if he disagreed; who lifted him up when he fell to the ground.

New tears flowed against his will, but Sam never moved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: As a reminder, exactly one song will be presented in each chapter. A hyperlink will be provided for those who may want the audio while reading.


	3. Broken

Blaine looked reluctantly out the window of the car, staring at a blazing red, white, and green Papa John's sign. “Do we have to, Sam?” he asked in a stale voice.

Not-Blonde Chameleon (as he had temporarily been dubbed) shifted gears into park, and powered down the vehicle. The two had spent most of the day indoors trying to get a hold on Blaine's disposition. Just after sunset hunger took hold of him, and Sam had been inspired to break Blaine of the funk he was trapped in. He knew that his friend wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole, curl into a fetal position, and wait for his parents to come home. There was no way Sam was going to let this outgoing, dapper man hide from the world for longer than was absolutely necessary. Healing wouldn't come instantly, but what kind of best friend would Sam be if he just let Blaine wither away and crumble?

He'd managed to convince Blaine that he had no food remaining in his home, and that they needed to go out for dinner. This was not even remotely true but he knew that even in his impaired state Blaine would remember the historical challenges Sam's family had faced, and feel at least a small twinge of guilt over the consideration and generosity he'd been shown. Pizza had been an easy choice, and this place was only about two miles from the Richelieu Apartments. Without much coercion, his friend had handed Sam the keys to his rental car and gotten into the passenger seat. What Sam couldn't pin down was Blaine's sudden hesitation.

“We passed a Pizza Hut like two seconds ago.”

Sam gave him a sidelong glance. “Dude, you are _not_ making me eat at a Pizza Hut.”

“It's pizza.”

“We'll spend the rest of the night with our faces melting off.”

He watched as the shorter man crossed his arms, and made eye contact with him. There was resistance there, but not as much as Sam would have thought. He suspected this had been one of Blaine's hangout spots with Kurt, although he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Kurt touch a pizza. They were usually too oily for Kurt's liking, mandating a thorough cleansing of his face afterward to mitigate an acne breakout. Sam understood, but shared Kurt's concern only over certain pizza parlors.

The taller man grabbed his friend's hand, an action iconic of Sam's tactile nature. Eyebrows folded uneasily in preparation for a peptalk that Sam did not indulge.

“Band-aid's gotta come off, B.” His friend's expression changed from uneasy to confused. Without giving Blaine a chance to confirm or refute his suspicion, Sam got out of the car and ran around to open the passenger side door.

The restaurant was virtually empty, and Blaine excused himself to the restroom once they were inside. Sam walked over to the counter, where the cashier patiently waited as he pondered what Blaine might want. As if on queue, his friend appeared at his side, explaining, “Some guy jumped in there before me.”

Sam nodded, then pointed towards the menu. “Want anything other than pepperoni?”

“Anything with a lot of meat is fine.”

In the middle of giving a smoldering smirk sure to make his gay friend blush, Sam noticed the teenage cashier straighten and puff out his chest. “If I may suggest, Sir, the Spicy Italian is very good tonight.” The cashier's voice was deeper than Sam thought sounded normal, and he had not stopped looking at Blaine since he walked up to the counter.

“We'll take a large and two pops,” Sam said, pulling out his wallet.

The cashier shook his head, waving a negating hand. “On the house,” he said, smiling at Blaine before handing the cups to him and walking away.

“Was that flirting? Is that how gay guys flirt?” Sam whispered as the pair walked to a booth near the restrooms. 

“Well, not all of us throw piano solos at straight men.”

“He was totally flirting with you! Did you think he was cute?” Sam scrutinized the cashier as he re-appeared to deliver plates and silverware to their table. He was about as tall as Sam, with blonde hair shaved to a buzz cut and defined muscles that were obvious under the cut of his polo. He could easily see why any woman or gay man might find the cashier attractive.

Blaine rolled his eyes. “He wasn't flirting, Sam.”

“Whatever, Mister I Don't Pay for Pizza,” he joked. Blaine went to fill their drinks, glancing again at the closed door of the restroom on his way back. Sam pulled out his iPhone and opened a web browser to Facebook. With their busy tour schedule social media was the only way he could keep tabs on his two ex-girlfriends, Mercedes Jones and Brittany S. Pierce. He scrolled down his newsfeed, replete with selfies taken during concerts or afterward, and- “HEY!”

Blaine nearly spit his Pepsi out at Sam's exclamation. “Jesus, Sam! What-”

“You haven't changed your Facebook relationship status! If you had, I would have known.”

His friend looked into his bubbles, a grimace drawing his face down. “He doesn't use it much anyway, and-”

“You're changing that shit right now,” Sam ordered, logging out of his account and placing his phone on the table in front of Blaine.

The shorter man looked as if he wanted to argue, but was holding back. Sam knew why Blaine hadn't done it yet. It would mean two things: Firstly, that there was no going back. Blaine had thought he and Kurt were destined to be soulmates, and still harbored hope that they would get back together. Sam didn't want to deprive his friend of hope, but he also didn't want Blaine to torture himself waiting for something that might never happen.

Secondly, it meant that all of Blaine's friends and family would see and know. They'd ask for details, and offer their consolations, and a variety of other gestures which Blaine would find meaningless; not necessarily because he thought the others cared nothing for him, but because the gestures didn't come from the one person who Blaine wanted to hear from.

Sam waited until his friend's lips pursed, ready to present what he was sure would sound like a very rational and logical argument. When the moment came Sam pounded the table with the palm of his hand, interrupting Blaine's thought process. “Now,” he repeated.

Blaine picked up Sam's phone, and logged into his own Facebook account. “I don't like Tough Love Sam. Can't you just hug me again?”

“Later,” Sam said, smiling happily at the cashier when he brought out their pizza. He had just bitten into a slice when a man walked out of the restroom and came to stand next to Blaine. Arms waving emphatically, he couldn't hear any of the words the man was saying—but he could see from the man's face that he was angry.

“What's this about?” Sam asked, getting up to flank the man's other side.

The man said to Blaine, not even acknowledging Sam's presence, “Can't a guy have five minutes of privacy?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Blaine said, and Sam noticed an almost imperceptible shift in his friend's demeanor. “We've been sitting here the whole time.”

“I _know_ it was you,” the stranger said, taking an intimidating step towards Sam's friend. Protective instincts kicked in again, and Sam moved to intercept this idiot who dared to threaten Blaine.

An unexpected flash of silver later the stranger found himself screaming with a fork jabbed into his hand, head pinned to the table amid pizza by the sole of Blaine's Banana Republic slip-ons. Sam's iPhone beeped cheerfully nearby with a Facebook notification.

Taken aback, Sam had never seen his best friend move that quickly before. In fact, he'd never seen Blaine do much more than punch a punching bag. But here Blaine was, looming over this bleeding person, emanating DANGER from every pore in his body as he grabbed the man's hair and pulled to lift his gaze, staring him down over the length of a strong leg and leather shoe.

“Do _not_ fuck with me!” Blaine whispered with menacing authority, and for the first time in the course of their friendship Sam saw how formidable Blaine was. He had never heard Blaine swear before, never imagined death in hazel eyes...

The cashier suddenly appeared at Sam's side, placing a hand on his shoulder to restrain him from interfering. “What's all this then?”

“He's crazy!” the stranger cried, cringing as the fork was wrenched from his hand and Blaine allowed him to stand, but did not back down.

Sam caught the cashier's attention and tried to explain. “We were sitting here having a talk when this guy came over and tried to start something.”

“He kept trying to come into the bathroom while I was-!”

“Get out, you're not welcome here,” the cashier interrupted, grabbing the collar of the man's shirt and hauling him to the door. “Are you all right, Sir?” he asked Blaine.

Breathing heavily, Blaine looked the cashier up and down. “I'm fine, uhm...?”

“Spencer,” the teenager offered, with a smile. “You won't be bothered again, Sir. Let me pack you another to go. No charge.” With that, Spencer cleared the ruined pizza from the table and disappeared again.

Sam watched with caution as Blaine, seething, sat back down in the booth and tried to calm himself down. With slow, careful movements, Sam took back his own seat and folded his hands on the table. A few quiet moments later, he decided to open with, “So... that was awesome.”

It earned him a muted smile and a grateful peek from the corner of Blaine's glare.

“Did you even so much as jiggle the door handle?”

“No.”

“Right,” Sam said, watching his folded hands as if they were more interesting than the fact that his normally well-mannered and charming (and small, don't forget small) friend had just owned that other asshole. The pair ignored two more happy chirps from Sam's phone as Spencer arrived with a boxed pizza.

“Can we go please?” Without further discussion, Sam grabbed the pizza, gave Spencer a nod, and walked with his friend back to the car. Blaine stared out the window as they got back onto the road.

“I guess remind me never to piss you off.” When his friend didn't respond, he followed up with, “How did you even- I mean I was ready to-”

“I don't need you to protect me.” The irritated retort almost forced them off of the street, Sam was caught so off guard.

They pulled into the parking lot of Sam's apartment complex, which had not yet completely dried from the previous night's storm. Small droplets fell from the covering over the visitor's parking spot, tapping inconsequentially on the car windshield. The only sounds Sam could hear as they sat, neither moving to leave the car.

“I know,” Sam said, at the same time Blaine said, “I'm sorry.” At last, Blaine's demeanor softened back to the Blaine he knew.

His phone beeped with three additional Facebook notifications. Frustrated and without thinking, Sam growled as he whipped out his phone and typed out, “Blaine's fine, talk later,” to everyone who had messaged him in the last fifteen minutes. It wasn't until after he'd sent that exact message to Kurt that he remembered Blaine was logged in on his phone. Mortified, Sam's shoulders slumped as he showed the screen to his friend.

 **Kurt Hummel, 07:49.** Are you ok, sweetie?  
**Blaine Anderson, 08:04.** Blaine's fine, talk later.

“I'm sorry, bro. I didn't mean to-” The gentle touch of Blaine's finger on his forearm stopped him.

“It's okay.” The brunette smiled, and in the obscure nightfall of the parking lot Sam could not remember when he'd last felt so relieved. Their eyes met and held each other, each surprised when Sam's phone beeped again—this time not with a Facebook message, but with two text messages.

 **Kurt Hummel, 08:06.** Sam? Blaine's with you?  
**Kurt Hummel, 08:06.** Take care of him, please.

  
[**Broken (Lifehouse)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6cdPeYJh0s)  
  
The broken clock is a comfort. It helps me sleep tonight.  
Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time.  
And I am here still waiting, though I still have my doubts.  
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

The broken locks were a warning you got inside my head  
I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead  
And I still see your reflection inside of my eyes  
That are looking for purpose, they're still looking for life

I'm hanging on another day  
Just to see what you will throw my way  
And I'm hanging on to the words you say  
You said that I will be okay

I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing  
With a broken heart that's still beating  
In the pain there is healing  
In your name I find meaning  
So I'm holding on  
I'm barely holding on to you


	4. Goodbye to You

“You weren't there,” Sam said into his phone. “You didn't see him.”

He'd needed some time to think, to process what had just happened. He knew he wasn't the smartest cookie in the cupboard when it came to school stuff, but he liked to think he was smart in other ways. Street smart, maybe. When it came to his friends, definitely. He'd never seen Blaine act out like that before. As remarkable as it had been, he'd also been a bit frightened—not because he thought that Blaine would ever hurt him, but because maybe he didn't know what was going on in his best friend's head.

Dropping Blaine off at his place, Sam had shoved the pizza in his refrigerator, grabbed a coat from his closet, and excused himself for a walk. The brunette hadn't said anything, just nodded in understanding and given him those adorable eyes which read _I get it_. He'd tossed the television remote control in his general direction, pointed towards his iPod docking station, and said he'd be back in about ten minutes. That was half an hour ago.

Taking a straight line to the point in the parking lot furthest from his apartment door, Sam waited only until he was certain to be out of earshot before pulling out his phone. Who was he supposed to call? Obviously, none of the people they considered to be mutual friends. Not Blaine's family, not his own family. Good ol' Mister Shue was always there for them when any of his former students needed advice, but Sam knew his hands were full dealing with both an infant and an OCD wife. After reaching Coach Bieste's voicemail, he'd scrolled down his contact list and stopped at Ryder Lynn. Neither Blaine nor Sam had been particularly close to the football player, and he wasn't sure they'd spoken since his graduation from McKinley High School. That became especially obvious when Ryder told him that Sue Sylvester had forced every remaining member of New Directions to transfer out of the school.

“Yeah, me, Jake, Marley, and Unique. There's no glee club. Me and Jake have been playing bodyguard for Unique. The jocks at our new school make McKinley's athletes look like children.”

Ryder had been in the middle of describing the non-slushee ways currently being used to torture their transgender friend when Sam stopped him. He felt bad, though, because it sounded like they had a lot to catch up on and Ryder had always reminded him a little of himself: athletic, dyslexic, kind of a dork, and always falling for the wrong girl. He promised himself there would be time for that later, but right now he needed to talk about Blaine.

“I mean, I don't know him as well as you,” Ryder said, and Sam had a mental image of the kid's shoulders shrugging. “Definitely doesn't sound like the Blaine I remember.”

“It wasn't the Blaine I remember, either.”

“Are you sure you're not over-reacting?”

“Dude, he stabbed the guy's hand with a fork and was stepping on his neck before I even moved.”

“Holy shit!” It came through as a laugh, and Sam remembered that Ryder was still only a sophomore in high school. No wait, a junior. No wait, The Typical Junior. He didn't know Ryder that well, but the reaction made him wonder if he'd been the right choice to confide in. Other than the gun scare at school last year, and something about getting it on with his babysitter, Ryder had given Sam no indication that he'd been through any of the hardship that Sam had at the same age. How was he going to impress upon this kid the gravity of the situation?

“I'm telling you if we hadn't stopped him, that guy would've been fucked.” Sam shivered, briefly recalling the insane fury of Blaine's glower.

“We?”

“Yeah, this guy Spencer who worked at the pizza place.”

“Oh hey I know that guy. We were on McKinley's football team together. Spencer Porter. He was good.”

Sam sighed impatiently. “What should I do about _Blaine?_ ”

“Not ever cheat during an epic Halo marathon!”

“ _Thanks!_ ” Sam was not sure he could keep the aggravation from his voice much longer, and Ryder was proving to be very little help. “Look, I gotta go. Don't lose my number, all right buddy?”

“Sure, man. Good luck! Let me know if you need backup.”

The blonde shoved his phone back into his pocket and stared across the poorly-lit parking lot at the door of his apartment, where Blaine waited for him. He may not know what to do, how best to help his friend, but that would not stop him from trying. Iron Man was always there when Cap needed him, and Sam would be damned if Cap didn't recipe-... recipro-... return the favor.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blaine had been worried when Sam said he wanted to go for a walk. His best friend's facial features were, among other things, very expressive. When he was pissed, his jaw locked and his eyes hardened. When he was happy, perfect teeth beamed from between lips pulled taut. And when Sam Evans was sad, kittens across the world grieved with the gloss of unshed tears. What Blaine had seen when Sam walked out the door was restrained fear.

But was Sam afraid for him, or afraid _of_ him?

Usually not one to back down from a little reflection and introspection, Blaine had enough on his mind at the moment. Kurt had messaged him. Kurt had cared. It wasn't enough to suggest—even in his unquestionably damaged state—that Kurt wanted to get back together. But the mere acknowledgment of his pain was more than he expected. 

It occurred to him then that he must have silenced his phone, otherwise the messages would have registered on his Facebook Messenger app. Pulling out his phone he indeed found five additional messages, other that Kurt's, to which Sam had responded.

 **Cooper Anderson, 07:47.** Hang in there, squirt.  
**Tey Tey, 07:49.** I WILL KILL HIM  
**Mercedes Jones, 08:03.** O HELL to the na!!  
**Dr. Y (Artie), 08:03.** Wait, what?  
**Santana Lopez, 08:03.** If he is crying the next time I see him you best become invisible, Hobbit, cuz I will hunt you down and cut you.

Interestingly, five of the senders had assumed Sam was behind the reply and asked him to send their sympathies; Santana had sent a knife emoji.

That was it, then. By tomorrow morning, everyone would know it was over. Perhaps not Rachel Berry, who seemed to have vanished from the planet after moving to Los Angeles. Like his last breakup with Kurt, she would just take Kurt's side, anyway. They'd been close friends and close rivals for years, while Blaine couldn't even remember the last time he and Rachel had socialized together without at least one other friend joining.

His throat tightened, Kurt's message staring back at him from behind closed eyes. Blaine could feel it building inside of him, an explosion of sorrow unsated and tainted with resentment. He tried to shut it away, shaking his head violently as he pounded the cushion of Sam's couch. He would not allow this. As hard as it might be to let it go, there was no going back. He had to say goodbye.

Scrolling through Sam's iPod with purpose, he had just selected a song and hit the play button on the docking station when the front door opened. Sam didn't say anything, just nodded as he removed the coat and placed it back into his closet. “Sam-” he started, but the taller man stopped him with a raised hand. 

He observed Sam cross the room and stop the iPod, guitar appearing from thin air in his arms as he sat down on the couch. As he began strumming the strings, Blaine recognized the melody. In Sam's eyes he saw none of the fear from before. What he did see was concern, and understanding, and unconditional love as they sang together.  


[ **Goodbye to You (Michelle Branch)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OQmxN1AlxMo)

Of all the things I've believed in  
I just want to get it over with  
Tears form behind my eyes but I do not cry  
Counting the days pass me by  
I've been searching deep down in my soul  
Words that I'm hearing are starting to get old  
It feels like I'm starting all over again  
The last three years were just pretend  
And I said

Goodbye to you  
Goodbye to everything that I knew  
You were the one I loved  
The one thing that I tried to hold onto

And it hurts to want everything  
And nothing at the same time  
I want what's yours and I want what's mine  
I want you but I'm not giving in this time

Any trace of anger siphoned from him, leaving him with a distinctly nostalgic emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Blaine's lips flattened as he wrapped his arms around himself, sitting on the couch next to his best friend. He could feel Sam watching him, waiting for him to say anything, knowing that nothing needed to be said.

The guitar was set down. “I have to work tomorrow.” Blaine nodded. “I'll be home before five. You can stay here, or you can come with me.”

“Whatever you want.” The words came out of his mouth, but Blaine didn't recognize his own voice.

Sam got up and stood in front of him, offering a gentle hand that pulled him from the couch. Before he knew what was happening, he found himself in Sam's bedroom again with his sweater being pulled off. “What?”

“I know it's early, but we've had a long day.”

“I can sleep on the couch.” Somewhere in his wistful memory, he remembered Sam sleeping on the couch in the Bushwick apartment. Kurt's apartment.

“Nope,” the tall blonde said matter-of-factly. “My house, my rules.”

Reality came rushing back to him as Sam bent down, ripping Blaine's pants down in a single smooth motion without even unbuttoning them. He blushed and attempted to cover himself, even though Sam had turned to hang the clothes on the back of a chair and grab something from a drawer in his dresser. He returned with a canny smirk, staring down at him wittingly, holding Blaine's eyes with his own. “You can wear these.”

Green plaid pajama pants pressed against his chest identical to the pair that Sam held in his hand. Modesty thrown aside, he watched his friend change right in front of him. Sam had already climbed into bed wearing the pants and a black tank top by the time Blaine realized he was still standing there in his underwear.

“Really, I'll just sleep on the couch. It's fine, Sam.”

“Don't even think about it. Come here,” the bigger man instructed.

Relenting, Blaine pulled on the soft pajama pants and found himself once again drawn up against Sam's firm yet supple torso. Memory of the previous night flashed through his mind, when Sam had held him until they'd both fallen asleep. He took in Sam's scent again, face burying in his neck. _Please don't ever leave me._

As if hearing his unspoken thought, a strong arm found its way around his waist while another flipped off the light on a nearby nightstand. “I'm right here, B.”


	5. If You're Not the One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I just learned that "brunette" only applies to females and that the masculine equivalent "brunet" never made it into the common American English vernacular. So, uh, sorry?

Sam was tired of change.

Between moving into Lima for his father's job, moving out of their house and into a cramped motel room, leaving Lima for Kentucky for his father's job, moving back to Lima to finish high school, and moving to New York for his brief modeling career, Sam wasn't even sure he remembered all the moves anymore. He'd been more than willing to finally settle in Lima again. He missed his family sometimes. Stevie and Stacey were getting so big, and had long outgrown the last clothes he had provided for them—provided with money Sam had secretly earned with his body in between school, babysitting his brother and sister, and his shifts at DQ. “You had to become a man much sooner than other kids your age,” his father had acknowledged, before assenting to his triumphant reunion with the New Directions during his junior year at McKinley. 

Was that really like three years ago? Mid-junior year, all of senior year, the summer months on Blaine's couch in Bushwick, vacating Bushwick with Blaine for Mercedes' new apartment in the fall, then spring had burst into April with Rachel's _Funny Girl_ debut and his own first real gig as a model for Treasure Trailz hair removal cream. Yeah, it had been just over a year since high school graduation and almost three years since leaving his family. Sam wouldn't blame them if they felt abandoned. He'd promised them he would visit as often as he could, and not just for holidays, especially now that they were only four hours away again.

Hair removal cream was the only non-underwear product in the Treasure Trailz product line, and initial sales resulting from an advertising campaign featuring Sam's flawless skin were higher than Charlie Darlene could have hoped. In addition to the wages he expected, Charlie had given Sam a bonus when he'd stopped to pick up his last paycheck. What he'd told only Blaine was that she'd offered a second, non-monetary farewell bonus which Sam had declined (with difficulty).

What that meant was that this time, when he returned to Lima, he didn't need to depend on the charity of others. The Hudson-Hummels had been more than willing to welcome him back into their house, Carole and Burt eager to have another young person around to care for. But it had been weird, passing Finn's bedroom on the way to the bathroom every morning. Sam had enough saved for a year's worth of rent at Richelieu, and had moved in as soon as his security deposit cleared. He knew his savings wouldn't last forever, and needed a source of income if he intended to stay independent. 

Coach Bieste had been more than happy to hire him as assistant coach, now that Principal Sylvester was making a concerted effort to put every McKinley sports team on the map. Bieste had said that unlike the other nearby high schools, which paid non-teacher assistant coaches only in small annual stipends, his new job would be fully salaried with medical, dental, and vision benefits. It wouldn't be a glamorous job, and he probably wouldn't have many opportunities to take his shirt off, but he'd make enough money to pay his bills, keep food on his table, buy birthday presents for his loved ones, and save a little each month so that he never had to worry about keeping a roof over his head. It would be steady and stable, and he could even see himself making a career out of it; if he couldn't be a star himself, he could help create the stars of the future.

Once the school year started, Sam would have his work cut out for him between McKinley's football, soccer, hockey, basketball, and swim teams. But pre-season training and scrimmages wouldn't start for at least another month. The thought of spending his last weeks of freedom playing video games was appealing. But the consoles and games had been Blaine's and after three days of porn and Netflix, Sam had done what every self-respecting McKinley graduate would do: He got a temporary job as a barista at the Lima Bean.

“You look cute,” Blaine said from the other side of the counter as he pulled the apron over his head. “And I mean like, dirty cute.”

From the horror that marred his friend's face, Sam presumed that Blaine hadn't meant to say the words aloud. Or maybe he was remembering an interaction with Kurt—not that either seemed like the type to use the phrase 'dirty cute.' Either way, Not-Blonde Chameleon knew exactly how to wipe that look from Blaine's face.

“ _Oel ngati kameie_ ,” he said flirtatiously in Na'vi, sex beaming from his eyes. _I see you._

Blaine's face immediately turned red, and Sam caught a shy smile before his friend turned away. Yep, he still got it. No matter how many jokes or innuendos Sam made, it never got old and Blaine's reaction was always satisfying. 

Truth be told, he wasn't sure whether or not Blaine was still attracted to him. His gay friend had been infatuated with him in high school, a fact which Blaine reluctantly confessed during Guilty Pleasures week only after being called out on it. Sam had grown up in a Christian house, but had never harbored any animosity towards homosexuals. He'd made that perfectly clear even as a sophomore at McKinley, confronting Finn when he'd expressed concern over Sam's aborted duet with Kurt, standing up for Kurt when Dave Karofsky tried to start stuff. Just because he was straight didn't mean he couldn't be friends with gay guys.

Besides, who could blame them for enjoying a big swinger?

He'd also made it clear that he was straight later that year, when first Quinn accused him of being gay, and then the entire glee club accused him of having a clandestine affair with Kurt during the inception of his relationship with Blaine. But it had literally been months since the last time he had sex, even since before his most recent go at Mercedes. Girls were awesome, and beautiful, and... complicated. And right about now, Sam would take just about anything he could get.

“I'll have a medium drip with a crystal,” he heard Blaine tell the barista manning the register. Sam had been moving to tell the man that he would pay for Blaine's coffee, when he heard the response. “No charge, Sir. You're welcome, Sir.”

Wait, what?

Okay he knew that Blaine was adorable, but two free pizzas and a free coffee in less than a day? That had to be some kind of record. Sam was also a good-looking guy, but nobody had ever given him free shit or given him the 'sir' with the capital S. And the shorter man wasn't even trying, sitting his melancholy self over at a table within Sam's direct line of sight. When Blaine looked over Sam wiggled his eyebrows and motioned with his head at the other barista, silently asking whether he thought the other guy was cute. But the brunette shook his head, and stared out the window at a couple holding hands in front of their car.  


  
[**If You're Not the One (Daniel Bedingfield)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ATPz-sd-i3U)

I don't know why you're so far away  
But I know that this much is true  
We'll make it through and I hope  
You are the one I share my life with  
And I wish that you could be the one I die with  
And I pray that you're the one I build my home with  
I hope I love you all my life

'Cause I miss your body and soul so strong  
That it takes my breath away  
And I breath you into my heart  
And I pray for the strength to stand today  
'Cause I love you whether it's wrong or right  
And though I can't be with you tonight  
You know my heart is by your side

I don't wanna run away but I can't take it, I don't understand  
If I'm not made for you, then why does my heart tell me that I am?  
Is there anyway that I can stay in your arms?

Some of the brunch rush paused on their way out to listen to the sad boy, emotion tangible in every lyric. Though they watched him respectfully from a distance so as not to interrupt him, Sam found ways to grab their attention and flash a smile towards the door—asking without words to leave his friend alone. Not that he could blame any of them. Blaine was born to perform, no matter what mood he was in.

The door to the Lima Bean opened and as the customer approached the counter Sam identified him as the stranger from the previous night's Papa John's fiasco. “I'll take a large mocha,” he told the barista at the register, handing over a credit card with a bandaged hand. Sam kept his head down, hoping that he wouldn't make a scene in the middle of his workplace. He had almost finished making the man's drink, when it happened.

“Well look who it is,” the man called across the room, recognizing Blaine.

Sam put the drink in the man's hand, and said, “Let it go, man.”

“This guy, eh? Hey, I gotta use the bathroom again. Wanna come shake it for me?” The stranger grabbed his crotch and aimed it towards the brunette.

Appearing as calm and composed as ever, Sam watched Blaine stand up and move towards the door as the man taunted, “Aww, what's the matter? Boyfriend not-”

Once again, before Sam could take any action, he found himself caught by surprise by a flash of silver. This time it took the form of a handful of coins hurled from Blaine's pocket. The stranger raised his hands to cover his head as he was pelted with quarters and dimes. A second later, Sam watched a well-dressed, human-sized bullet race across the shop with lightning speed. The force of the impact as Blaine's knee slammed into the stranger's abdomen sent him flying backward into the door of the restroom, breaking the door off its hinges. The man hit the wall and fell unconscious to the ground.

Fuming, shoulders heaving with each breath, Blaine turned just long enough to make eye contact with Sam before bolting out the door.

 

As fast as Blaine was, Sam was the athlete and had longer legs. It wouldn't take much more effort to overtake him. But his friend seemed to be running without direction, turning down McKibben, turning down Jefferson, turning down Findlay. At least Sam couldn't tell where he was running to and when Blaine didn't respond to his voice, his curiosity piqued. They must have run for more than a mile when he realized that maybe Blaine didn't have a destination he was running _towards_ , he was just _running_.

The taller man closed the distance between them as they entered Schoonover Park, with its deceptively serene waters and cloudless blue sky. Thinking it to be the most effective way to get Blaine to stop, Sam tackled him into the grass. “Let go!” the brunette screamed.

After a few moments of struggle, Sam had his friend immobilized beneath him. Legs curled around legs, arms held down arms, Blaine's head an uncomfortable lump beneath him fighting for liberation. “Sam!” came the demand, muffled by a muscular chest.

“Okay Bucky,” he began, carefully but firmly adjusting so that he had a grip of both Blaine's arms with one hand. “I don't know how or when you became a badass-” With the other hand he took hold of Blaine's cheek, lowering his own until they were almost touching. “-but I need you to CALM DOWN!”

This version of Blaine could break his grip at any moment. _Please come back to me!_

He wasn't sure if it was the booming echo of his voice, or the proximity of his face, or the pleading in his eyes, but the smaller man yielded. Hazel eyes locked onto green, pupils dilating with shock. “There he is,” Sam smiled with relief.

Blaine breathed his name, glanced down between their bodies. The boy on top took this as his queue to release the hold. But once he was up, offering a supporting hand to pull the brunette to his feet, he noticed that his gay friend's attention was drawn to a hard bulge in Sam's jeans. Which must have pressed into Blaine's stomach. Which must have pulled him back from whatever had possessed him.

Dismissing the tightness in his jeans as blood rushing, friction, and long-overdue physical contact from wrestling Blaine down, he grabbed hold of his friend's hand and pulled him up. Seemingly embarrassed, the smaller man turned to the lake. Sam had to defuse whatever might be left of the bomb in Blaine's brain, lest he sprint for the water.

“Uh... I miss sex.” _Wrong words, Sam._

Those poorly-chosen four words had the unintentional effect of making Blaine topple back down into the grass laughing. Sam stood above him, grinning, arms akimbo, his hardon mocking them both from between his legs. “Laugh it up, fuzzball,” the blonde said, with what he considered to be a fantastic Han Solo impression. 

After he'd stopped laughing, wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater, Blaine threw another curve ball his way. “I can help you with that.” 

Sam's eyes widened. Blaine had never before responded to his flirts with anything affirming, always cautious of the line where he might be perceived as a Predatory Gay. So when the shorter man's hand reached towards his crotch, Sam wasn't sure what to do.

He didn't even know his breath had caught until Blaine's hand stopped, mid-air, without touching him. “Sam, relax. I'm sorry. I mean, I know you're- I would never- not unless you asked- which you'd never- because you're-”

Sam stopped him by once again pulling him to his feet. “I respect you, too, bromo.” To reinforce the statement as truth, he pulled Blaine into yet another hug—although he could swear that Blaine's lower half was a little closer than necessary, Sam's bulge pressing against his waist.

Yep, he still got it.

Blaine seemed to realize it, and then jerked out of the embrace. “You should go back to work.”

“I don't want to. I'd rather stay with you.” He wouldn't get out of this one so easily. Before the end of the day, Cap swore to wring a good, heartfelt explanation out of his Bucky.

“You're going to get fired.”

Placing a companionable arm over Blaine's shoulders as they walked out of the park, Sam thought back to the broken bathroom door and unconscious stranger that he'd left behind. “I was going to quit anyway.”


	6. Come On

“Good morning! It's gonna be a great day, and do you know why?”  
“Cuz every day's a great day!”

Blaine had no idea why Sam would watch this. Granted, the guy Mark was cute. And his boyfriend Ethan was cute. And his straight best friend Donny was cute. Blaine suspected that YouTube was streaming from Sam's phone to the TV because his best friend was trying to tell him something. That things will get better, perhaps. That no matter what was going on, every day was a day to celebrate life. But why did Sam even know who these guys were?

“Dude, it's us!” the not-blonde called from the kitchen, where he was cooking dinner. “You're the main guy, and I'm the best friend.”

And Kurt is the boyfriend.

“He's uplifting,” Sam said around a wooden spoon of spaghetti sauce.

“I seriously don't know who you are anymore. How did you end up with so many Christian songs on your iPod, anyway?” He recalled being marginally surprised scrolling through Sam's iPod the other night. All the pop and rock and country and other genres that he'd known would be there were. In the years they'd been friends the two had often shared musical tastes, whether it was to narrow down suggestions for glee club, create playlists to serve as soundtracks for their game nights, or just jam in the car. He had never seen any Christian artists in any of Sam's devices before.

Apparently Sam's neighbors were almost all adults in their twenties and thirties, who had started or were starting their own families. Kids were given ample opportunity to swim, play tennis, or chase each other across the grass. But while the Lima Mall was within easy walking/biking distance for Sam, it wasn't a safe distance for children to venture unescorted. Neither was a playground with a slide or swings, nor a library close enough that parents could send their children off to quietly entertain themselves for a few hours. Well, most books were online these days, anyway. 

Blaine smiled as wholesome, family-oriented Sam described how he'd wanted to compensate for the limited play-portunities in the vicinity. Except for this weekend (because it had been raining), once a week he gathered as many of his neighbors' kids as he could and spent a couple hours singing songs on the grass. 

“It's a little like babysitting Stevie and Stacey... multiplied by like forty-seven.” In Samspeak, this translated to around a dozen children. “But yeah, I sat down with each of the parents beforehand and they had some conditions. At least three other parents have to be there the whole time, and the kids are never allowed to be taken inside my apartment or away from the complex. Do I look like a child molester or something?”

“Looks can be deceiving.”

“They also wanted to make sure I wasn't teaching their kids songs about inappropriate things, and gave me list upon list of artists that were off limits. After putting them all together I couldn't think of anyone that was left! So, yeah, I guess you could say I had to broadcast my horizons-”

“Broaden.”

“-broaden my horizons. Maybe you should listen to a couple, they're kinda uplifting.” If he used that word again, Blaine would punch him in the ear.

Joking aside except for the hair, and the gay YouTube vlogger, and the Christian music, he supposed this was still exactly the same affectionate, considerate, talkative Sam. He said exactly what came to his mind, all the time, never left you wondering what he thought. As suggested in the John Mayer biography he'd read, Sam did his best to 'always' have his guitar '80% of the time.' Even just the way he cooked dinner, Blaine noticed, as his best friend gathered ingredients from cupboard and refrigerator—which were not at all short of food. 

Sam was making both regular pasta noodles and carb-less, gluten-free, organic, vegan zucchini noodles. “This Veggetti thing is incredible,” he said as Blaine cast a skeptical look. “It was like ten bucks at Target, and now I can have spaghetti any time I want. Even after six. You can have some if you want.”

“You don't expect me to eat all of this?” Blaine stared at the enormous pot of boiling water, into which Sam had already stirred two whole boxes of standard Barilla noodles.

His friend giggled, brushing sliced pieces of sourdough with freshly-pressed garlic that he'd microwaved in a bowl of butter. He had just opened the oven to place the tray of garlic bread when his doorbell rang. “Can you get that?”

The domesticity of the scene began to rob Blaine of his bitterness. He was grateful to Sam for letting him express it without losing his patience. As Sam and his wooden spoon bent back down over the spaghetti sauce, he said, “You know, I think you've come a long way from the guy who adopted a dog to prove to Mercedes that he was an adult.” 

The not-blonde said something about not seeing anything yet, just before he opened the door.

On rare occasion, Blaine felt self-conscious about his appearance. Normally confident if bashful, he was never conceited or egotistic, and was never accustomed to receiving compliments. When he did find himself doubtful of his looks, it usually had something to do with Kurt. Not that Kurt was to blame. It wasn't his fault that Blaine liked to binge on junk food when he was unsure of himself. Or his relationship. Or his future.

It was a good thing Sam didn't have cronuts or Cheetohs in his cupboards, because Blaine found himself looking up at a wall of clothed muscle. “Blaine!” Ryder Lynn and Jake Puckerman hollered simultaneously, arms spreading to capture him in a man sandwich. 

Sam ran over with a finger held to his mouth, greeting their friends and informing them of the newborn nextdoor. This was how Blaine found himself surrounded by three guys, each at least six feet tall, and strong enough to use him as a prop during a casual gym workout. Closing the door behind him, Blaine longed to stand next to Tina again.

“I invited them over for dinner,” Sam confessed, chest-bumping each boy on his way back to the kitchen. “I hope you don't mind.”

And there's the bitterness again. He'd only been here for two days. Could Sam already be so tired of his company that he had to invite other people over? Well, he had done enough apologizing over the last few weeks. He was not going to apologize for his heartache, not even to his best friend. And since when did Sam chest-bump either Ryder or Jake?

“How've you been, Blaine?” Ryder had followed Sam into the kitchen but Jake stood unobtrusively in the living room, facing him with hands shoved into his pockets.

He eyed the dark-skinned teenager, with whom he couldn't remember his first or last conversation despite having spent a year in New Directions together. “Fine.” 

Jake appeared to be sizing him up for an unknown purpose when Sam called them to the kitchen. The table was just large enough for four place settings. The two types of noodles and a pot of sauce sat steaming on the stove, with the toasted garlic bread smelling extremely garlicky from a basket on the counter. “Parmesan is in the fridge if anyone wants it,” Sam said, taking his seat.

As Ryder and Jake grabbed their plates and took their seats, Blaine couldn't help but notice that he was left sitting against the wall; flanked from every direction. “What is this?”

“It looks like dinner, dude.” Ryder's face was expressionless as he poured glasses of water around the table.

Suspicions not quenched, Blaine grabbed his plate and scooped a small portion of regular noodles and sauce onto his plate and tried to ignore the meaningless babble as he cut the long noodles into smaller pieces with his knife and fork. From the corner of his eye, he caught Sam watching from the corner of _his_ eye.

“Marley and I tried dating again, but it didn't really work out. How did guys in the past hold out until marriage?”

“Trust me,” Jake said, in all his wisdom, waving a fork in the air at his bff. “She's a great girl, but nobody our age is going to put up with her shit for very long.”

Sam nodded enthusiastically, chewing as best he could. “No doubt, it's hard. Even when you're willing to wait because you know she's The One, it's like their boobs join into a Borg collective consciousness and attack ruthlessly.”

“Borg?”

“Star Trek?”

“Seriously?”

“Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated.”

“Anyway,” Ryder watched Sam's automaton impression incredulously, tearing a bite of garlic bread off. “The only thing I really miss about McKinley was the glee club. I know I was pissed after Wade catfished me. But if there was one thing I could count on, it was that Mister Shue would let me sing how I felt. And right now, I just wish Marley would return my calls.”  


  
[ **Come On (Ben Jelen)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JQ4poj9-Uh4)

Thinking back before her  
I never knew the meaning of alone  
Still the flag is feeling foreign  
Live the day to escape into a phone  
Speaking of a world not real then  
Where did she go  
How did she go  
I wanna, wanna know  
I wanna know that she'll be coming here to me

Come on  
Without you I'll never feel the love inside of me  
Come on, you know that we belong  
Come on, come on, come on, come on

'Cause each of her kisses  
How my heart misses

She's coming  
She's coming here to me  
I'm needing, desiring to kiss her now  
I'm living for her, breathing for her  
Singing for her fairytale

That was the last straw. 

So what, Blaine was supposed to believe that Marley was the Soulmate of Destiny after the three straight boys sat there bonding over how difficult it was to _not_ have sex? He'd been finishing Kurt's sentences before they even started dating! Had any of them had that epiphanic moment, understanding that their hands were meant to hold for all eternity? Had any of them begged Marley's mother for her blessing before proposing? Had any of them transferred schools and commuted from Franklin County to Allen County daily just for high school? Had any of them picked up their lives and moved states to be with her, spent months planning a wedding that would never be?

Neither Ryder nor Jake would recognize heartache if it crawled up their ass.

He slammed his fork down onto the table, and six biceps flexed instinctively as three heads turned toward him. Blaine met each pair of eyes with daggers. “Maybe,” he breathed irately, “you should put those Spandex suits back on, 'Megastuds.' Then I could fight her for the chance to peel them off of you. Since, you know, all you're looking for in your fairytale is a piece of ass.”

Jake and Ryder exchanged glances, but Sam's gaze was locked on him. Blaine swore that if one cliché word that even remotely resembled 'uplifting' came out of his mouth, he would gouge the compassion right out of his giant lips.

“Let's take a walk, B.”

“Fuck you, Trouty.”

“I'm not asking.” Stupefied, Blaine resisted as Sam grasped his arm and hauled him from the table. He growled, tried to twist his arm out of Sam's grip. The taller man held him tight as he got dragged through the living room and down the stairs outside the apartment door into the parking lot, leaving Ryder and Jake to stare in disbelief at a closed door.

Blaine could take him. Sam might be bigger, stronger, but he was not a fighter. Not like Blaine, who had learned to defend himself after getting beaten by three guys at a Sadie Hawkins dance; who had founded the Dalton Academy Fight Club and used it as an instrument to become competitive with boys twice his size; who had refrained from hitting Sam Evans the day they'd met, after the man who would become his best friend had shoved him. A sweep of the leg and a blow to the chest, and the ex-stripper would find his head bleeding on the concrete.

“This won't fix anything,” his best friend said softly. The words shadowed that previous conversation after his first breakup, when Sam had convinced him not to exile himself back to Dalton. Oh Sam, had he really thought of hurting Sam?

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

Blaine only knew that he'd calmed down when Sam released his arm. Liberated, he turned and started to walk away. He hoped that Sam would give him space, let him walk alone for a while. He hoped that Sam would follow him, and never leave him alone. Everyone and everything had abandoned him: his friends, his family, his soulmate, his career, his dreams for the future. Sam was all he had left.

Wading into the darkness, the still night ringing loudly in his mind, Blaine didn't realize that Sam walked speechlessly behind him until he heard a heavy boot splash into a shallow puddle. Insightful Sam, who was waiting for him to say anything.

“Why did you invite them?”

“That's not your problem.”

“Then what's my problem, Sam?”

“Your problem is you don't want to be a burden on anyone. You want everyone to treat you normal, because you're Blaine Anderson. You handle things. You're the strongest guy I know, but you're hurting and it would be nice if people could just acknowledge that nothing is normal without pissing you off with their insignificant crap.”

Damnit.

“Blaine, I called them because I need you to talk to me and I didn't know what would happen. You've only been back for two days, and you haven't been right. You went all Leeroy Jenkins on a stranger. They took him away in an ambulance, and you'll be lucky if he doesn't press charges.”

“Nobody is pressing charges.”

“Not the point. This isn't you. Not since I made you change your Facebook status. Are you angry with me?” Blaine stopped, turned, and let his best friend catch up to him, Sam's skin taking on a silvery sheen in the moonlight. Is that really what he thought? That this was about Facebook? 

“I could never be angry with you, Sam.” 

Green eyes implored him to say more, arms spread helplessly to his sides. “There's something you're not telling me. I know you didn't come here to unload on me, even though I've unloaded on you plenty. And I'm not saying you have to. But I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Just... tell me what to do.”

Therein lay the problem. There wasn't anything he wasn't telling Sam. Yet.


	7. Lead Me

_“Wait, I don't get it. You don't seem that sad at all.”_

_Kurt had just come back from Nationals in New York. He had been so excited to tell Blaine about the trip that it had been difficult to hang up on him last night, when he'd agreed to meet at the Lima Bean this morning. Kurt was telling him all about how difficult it had been to compose their own music and choreography on such short notice, and how the entire team had reacted to their loss. But somehow, something about him just seemed... ecstatic._

_“Well, it was still amazing. I mean, I flew on a plane for the first time in my life...” He had breakfast at Tiffany's. There's no way Kurt Hummel went to New York without having breakfast at Tiffany's. “... I had breakfast at Tiffany's...”_

__Called it! _My God, he's adorable. “I love you.”_

_Okay, maybe he'd caught Kurt by surprise. He could tell by how Kurt was not swallowing his coffee, and how Kurt had to consciously remember to blink, and how his rosy cheeks somehow managed to turn just a tad rosier. But Blaine just sat there, staring back at this boy he loved, trying and failing to remember a time when he didn't, confident that Kurt would say it back._

_“I love you, too.”_ I'm two for two! __

_It was still early in their relationship, but it felt like it had taken way too long for them to exchange those words. They had come out of his mouth so naturally. As if everything that he was, everything that he would ever be, was designed specifically to say those words to this boy._

_“Oh hey, look who's here!”_

_Turning, he saw Mercedes walking through the door alongside that tall platinum-blonde kid. Mercedes, he remembered from when Kurt introduced them that night at Breadstix. The blonde, he wasn't sure about. He knew he was in New Directions with Kurt, had seen them perform together at competitions. And he'd been there at Rachel Berry's party a while ago. But Blaine had been drunk (everyone had been drunk) and couldn't for the life of him remember whether or not they'd been introduced. Shawn, was it? Sam? No, Stan! He'd make sure to apologize when they sat down, and clarify which name was correct._

_“Hey, what are you guys doing here?”_

_“Uh, nothing,” Shawn-Sam-Stan said nervously. “Just, uh, getting a coffee.”_

_“We ran into each other in the parking lot,” Mercedes added with what Blaine assumed she couldn't tell was a coyly, robotic grin. A dead giveaway. They must have just made out, or something._

_Blaine actually thought that was pretty cool. From what he'd heard from Kurt, the blonde had been making his way through the hottest, most popular cheerleaders at McKinley. He certainly had the looks to make it happen. Unless he was abusing them just to use Mercedes—he didn't seem like the type to do that—the fact that he was into her meant that Blaine had at least one thing in common with him. It wasn't Kurt's body that had attracted Blaine, it was his personality._

_Although hopefully he'd get to love that body soon, too._

_He thought momentarily about giving Mercedes that smirk which would indicate he knew what was up, but decided against it. Blaine didn't know either Mercedes or Shawn-Sam-Stan nearly well enough to make the same kind of jokes he would with his Dalton friends._

_“No way dude!” Captain Chameleon protested loudly from where he sat in the corner of Blaine's living room, polishing the star on his shield, cheeks acquiring a reddish hue with feigned anger. “I'm not counting that as the first time we met.”_

_Ironbird spread his metallic wings wide in a gesture of uncertainty. “But I honestly don't think we exchanged a single word that year.”_

_“What's wrong with the day I moved back from Kentucky?”_

_“Cap, I was so condescending to you! I accused you of 'selling' your body.” The mention of Captain Chameleon's body prompted the taller man to drop his shield, grip the fabric of his shirt, and shred it apart. His face lost the red tinge as the skin of his upper body adopted a proud rainbow spectrum._

_“Yeah, and I really didn't like you that much for the rest of junior year. I mean I wasn't proud of what I did, but I was proud of what I did with it.”_

_“You really want that to be how we met?”_

_“Totally! It's our superhero origin story. Former archnemeses, until they discovered they were brothers separated at birth. Thrown into the Phantom Zone by General Zue of the House of Zyl'vest'r. Together, they fought tooth and nail to crawl their way out. Now they are inseparable and unstoppable besties!”_

_With a toothy grin Captain Chameleon gripped his faithful companion, Ironbird, into a bone-brushing hug. Gazing into his eyes longingly, Ironbird felt Cap's tail press eagerly between his legs, just before their giant lips merged in-  
_

Blaine knew exactly what had startled him awake.

Despite their argument the previous night, Sam had continued to insist that Blaine would not sleep on his couch. The vehement commitment to his hospitality was both endearing and confusing. They must have been fighting over the blanket during the night, because Blaine found himself immobilized between the unyielding barrier of a cotton cocoon on one side and the warm, firm form of his host on the other. A strong arm had found its way around Blaine's lower back, holding him comfortably against Sam's chest. But what had woken Blaine was the unmistakable morning wood that Sam sported which, reminiscent of the dream it had interrupted, pushed eagerly between his legs.

Sam had always been more of an exhibitionist than the average guy. Blaine had seen his best friend shirtless many times. Even if that hadn't been the case their gym lockers at McKinley were practically adjacent, and privacy in the communal locker room showers was an illusion. Despite his crush on the blonde in high school, Blaine had managed to keep his curiosity above the waist in the locker room. But sometimes he accidentally caught a glimpse of things he shouldn't.

Based on those limited occasions, Blaine had been fairly certain that Sam was well-endowed before the awkward encounter in the park yesterday. But knowing and feeling were entirely different. This morning, Sam's hardon had snuck its way out of flannel pajama pants, slid between his thighs, and was teasing the cheeks of Blaine's ass.

Courting for two seconds with his own arousal at the adamantine thickness prodding him, his astoundingly-coherent mind began to fiercely and ambivalently scream _Oh my God! You have to get up!_. But after a few moments of struggling, Blaine could not find an escape route from the blanket. Every end seemed to be trapped underneath Sam somehow, and with them any hope that he could withdraw without waking his straight best friend.

It was too late. His movements had stirred the larger man. “Mmhrmm,” came a groggy whisper.

The pre-sunrise twilight had just begun to creep between window blinds, and Blaine's vision wasn't as awake as other parts of his body. In the dimness, vulnerable hazel eyes hesitantly traveled up the curve of Sam's neck, reluctant and terrified of making eye contact. “Sam!” His friend objected with a groan that brought Blaine to full mast, as the muscled arm around him tried to pull him even closer. He almost lost it when he felt Sam's lips on his ear with a gruff whisper.

“Don't stop...”

“Sam, wake up!” Between breaths that came shorter by the second, he smacked Sam's arm. When green eyes fixed on him, they delivered a very different message than he was expecting. Confusion, embarrassment, betrayal, or anger at the unwanted touch; that's how Blaine would have felt if anyone touched his genitals without explicit permission. Blaine could swear he saw Sam's lips begin to curve, with a look that said... Victory?

“I knew it,” Sam said, sleepily but triumphant.

“What?”

“You still wanna do me.”

“N- no, I was just sleeping. Y- I mean, it was a- I didn't mean to touch that. I mean you! You just got...”

This time Sam did smile at Blaine's humiliated stuttering. “Hey, trust me, I know all about my sitch. But you're pokin' me, too, bro.”

“Let me up.”

“Don't fake. You know you like it.”

“High school was a long time ago.”

“Not that long. And you're gonna lay there and tell me if I wanted to have a little fun, you'd say no?” Eyebrows kinked at him, and Blaine became impossibly harder. His legs stretched involuntarily, and Sam's eyes widened with the friction.

“I really think I should sleep on your couch tonight.”

“No! I slept on your couch for months, but only because Rachel and Santana wouldn't share their beds like Mercedes. You're in my apartment, and you're going to sleep comfortably in a bed.”

“Do I look comfortable to you?”

Sam eyed him playfully for a second. “Actually, yes. I mean, as comfortable as can be considering this sitch that neither of us is doing anything to fix.” 

At last Sam fumbled the blanket ends out from beneath him. He slid out from between Blaine's thighs, and Blaine rolled onto his back in relief as Sam rolled out of bed. “I'm going for a run. Since you're up, do you want to come with? Or do you want to stay here and take care of business?” When Blaine looked at him questioningly, standing at the foot of the bed, Sam nodded at the respectable tent he was making in the blanket.

“Oh my God, leave me alone!” Blaine covered his face with his hands and turned onto his side.

“Okay, but you can... you know, if you need to. Just put the sheets in the wash when you're done!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Initially glad that no one was awake early enough to see the bouncing appendage in his sweats, the chill morning air of sunrise took care of that pretty quickly. The smile on his face was beginning to fade, but the satisfaction lingered. Playful joking aside, he hadn't lied yesterday when he told Blaine he'd respected him. To finally have confirmation that someone as awesome as Blaine both liked him as a person _and_ found him attractive was a great boost to his self-esteem. Sam knew he was a good-looking guy, but it was hard not to doubt his sex appeal when he hadn't dated a single woman since Mercedes—who was celibate until marriage.

And let's be honest, he hadn't had a good track record with women. Brittany had been great, if weird, but she'd broken up with him in a weird panic about gaining early acceptance to college and never looked back. His crush on Penny Owen, McKinley's school nurse, had never really progressed to the point of actual dating. Santana had used him, Quinn had cheated on him, and while making out with Tina that one night was fun, it had felt totally weird to try again the next day.

He should've taken up Charlie Darlene on her “bonus” when he'd had the chance. But Blaine wanted him, and was here now. Could he even do anything with another dude? Wait, was he really so desperate that he had even _thought_ that?

_Months, Sam. It's been months. You stopped counting, it's been that long._

But Blaine was his best friend. It could just be bros helping bros.

_He's your best friend, and he's hurting. You should not take advantage of him._

He realized that his mind had wandered after half an hour of brisk jogging through the traffic-less streets. Sam found himself unexpectedly in front of the church he attended every Sunday. It was a quaint, non-denominational Christian church, which Sam liked because their choir didn't sing the traditional hymns. Instead he'd found that when they sang during services, it was usually a rendition of one of the Christian songs you could find on his iPod, by artists whose music played on the radio. Feeling a little guilty for missing services yesterday (for obvious reasons), he decided to pop in for a moment.

The church itself was nothing spectacular, with simple wooden pews, colorful stained glass windows depicting no discernible pattern, and a well-trodden rough maroon carpet covering the chamber floor, including the center stage. He found the choir and their guitarist there, practicing in the empty congregation chamber. Quietly he sat to listen as their voices vibrated from the walls themselves, vowing to himself never to join any choir if it meant being at church at dawn for practice more than zero days a week.

[ ****](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGE6Davndh0&index=1&list=RDrGE6Davndh0)

[**Lead Me (Sanctus Real)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGE6Davndh0&index=1&list=RDrGE6Davndh0)

So father, give me the strength  
To be everything I'm called to be  
Oh father, show me the way  
To lead them  
Won't you lead me?

To lead them with strong hands  
To stand up when they can't  
Don't want to leave them hungry for love  
Chasing things that I could give up  
I'll show them I'm willing to fight  
And give them the best of my life  
So we can call this our home  
Lead me 'cause I can't do this alone

Father, lead me 'cause I can't do this alone

Not staying to watch the choir members congratulate each other on a good performance, it dawned on Sam that he'd forgotten the one person who had given him the most, the best advice on every situation in his entire life. He'd called Ryder because he didn't feel like he could ask his own family for advice because the circumstances at Papa John's had been intense and disturbing if told indelicately. Blaine was lashing out pretty weirdly, but regardless this was a breakup situation pure and simple. There was the perfect person who'd know what to do, and would never ever judge.

Stepping out of the church and angling back towards the Richelieu Apartments, Sam pulled out his cell phone. Most people would probably be pissed at calling this early, but- 

“Sam?”

“Hi, Dad.”

 

He walked through the door of his apartment an hour later. Sam giggled at finding Blaine had made the bed but the sheets had in fact been changed. The shorter man was in the kitchen, still in sleepwear, preparing a batch of oatmeal and a large cheese and egg white omelet. “I hope you washed your hands, mister.”

Blaine smiled weakly at him over a shoulder. “You still do oatmeal and egg whites on Mondays, right?”

“Yes, and I'm impressed.”

“What? You've seen me cook before.”

“Not that. How did you know what I wanted for breakfast today?”

Blaine recited the former-football jock's own routine for review. “Monday and Friday are oatmeal, add raisins and a little cinnamon, no sugar. Tuesday and Thursday are fruit, whole fruit not the canned syrupy stuff. Wednesday is bacon, real bacon not turkey bacon or the vegan kind that Rachel likes. Egg whites every day except Friday when its hard-boileds. Saturday is your splurge day when anything is fair game, and Sunday is anything leftover that has kept.”

“I didn't know I was so predictable.”

“Uhm, we used to live together?” Blaine's eyebrows arched adorably at him. “I always drove you to the store because you didn't want to carry groceries on the subway or bus. Plus, they're all simple things and easy to recall. Kurt always wanted croque-madames and lemon-blueberry pancakes and stuff, because breakfast was the one meal when he ate as many carbs as he wanted because he'd burn them off during the day, and...”

When he heard Blaine's voice trail off Sam sprang over to stand behind him at the stove. It was too early in the morning yet, and he was not about to let his best friend start crying again or burst into irritation over some memory of Kurt. With one hand, Sam grabbed the spatula from his hand and scooped the omelet onto a plate. With the other, he swiveled the brunette around by the shoulder to face him. “Hey, I'm gonna hop in the shower. Wanna watch?”

Blaine's frown disappeared behind rolling eyes. “Uhm, thanks? You don't want to eat before this gets cold?”

“Okay, I'll just eat across from you, all covered in manly sweat and-”

“Sam! Just stop, okay?”

Though he knew Blaine's puppy dog eyes were unbeatable, he gave them a run for their money to disperse the annoyed expression on his friend's face. He sat down and split the large omelet between them. “Are we still going to hang out when you move back to Westerville?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, you said your parents are back tomorrow and I know it didn't feel that far when we were in high school, but it was different. We always had a reason, you know? We had homework and glee and school council and-”

“Sam?”

“-and now we don't have any of that. So I guess-”

“Of course, we'll still hang out! There isn't a single movie coming out that I want to see without you. Guardians, TMNT, Hunger Games-”

“Dude that's not until November.”

“My point is, I'm still gonna see you all the time.”

“Well, do you wanna get season tickets for the Buckeyes with me? I feel like this is gonna be a good one for them.”

“Aren't those like $600 each?”

“I'll pay for yours.”

Blaine turned a suspicious, narrow eye on him and Sam began to cut into his food to avoid eye contact. Was he trying too hard? His conversation with his father, Dwight—and consequently his mother Mary, who'd woken at his call as well—had been brief but enlightening and filled with all kinds of useful suggestions about how to break Blaine's funk while acknowledging his feelings and helping him learn to heal himself. To be honest, it was quite a lot to take in and Sam wasn't sure he remembered it all. 

_You don't have to provide him with solutions. You just have to listen._  
_Don't badger him into talking. When he's ready to talk, you'll be the first to know._  
_Show him you care, but don't treat him like he's broken._  
_You're his best friend. He may not be ready to socialize with other people, but that doesn't include you._

“I can get my own ticket.”

Not-Blonde Chameleon smiled around his eggs, barely able to contain his excitement. Not only was his parents' advice going to work, but the only person he knew who was a bigger Buckeyes fan than himself was Blaine. “Is that a yes?”

“That's a yes,” Blaine admitted, and dropped his spoon quickly so that he wouldn't get covered in oatmeal when Sam rushed over and hugged him. “Duuuude, you stink!”

“This is gonna be awesome! Don't move, I'm gonna grab my laptop and we're totally doing this like right now.” Forgetting about breakfast, Sam hopped out of the kitchen over to his bedroom door.

“As your best friend, I am begging you to please, please shower first.”

“Fine.” He returned to the table and set his laptop down between their plates. A whimsical thought later, he leaned in close to Blaine's ear and whispered, “That invitation was real, by the way” before heading towards the bathroom.

Blaine hesitated in stunned silence for about three seconds, and then the kitchen was empty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Despite bringing a friend in to work with him who had sent a customer packing in an ambulance and damaged the bathroom door, and despite abandoning the rest of his shift without so much as a word to the shift manager, Sam found that he had not been fired from the Lima Bean. After nonchalantly showering—a memory that Blaine would not be forgetting any time soon—and buying their Buckeyes tickets, Sam had suggested they stop by to pick up his last paycheck.

“Well, I kinda think I'm gonna put in my two weeks notice anyhow,” he heard Sam say to a man in the back room. Blaine sat with his coffee by the front door, trying not to be annoyed by the barista at the register who would not stop staring at him.

“Sorry about the door,” he offered, looking towards the scene. The wooden panel stood leaning against the wall with the words OUT OF ORDER written in bold marker on a piece of paper taped to it.

“It's no problem, Sir.” The barista nodded.

“Is Blaine Anderson with you again today?” The manager's conversation with Sam was barely audible over the other customers. “I'll make you a deal. You don't need to put in notice, you can quit today, after your shift. You can even take your last paycheck in cash from the register if you want, I'll pretend not to notice.”

“What? Really? Why?”

“Kathy called in sick and Ben and I won't make it through lunch without your help. And... I need you to tell Blaine-”

“He's really sorry about what happened! Please don't Beannie Ban him.”

“Sam, I need you to tell Blaine that that _other_ man has been banned not only from the Lima Bean, but every coffee shop in Lima. He won't be allowed into any Starbucks, Peet's, Dunkin Donuts, even the Tim Hortons across from the Lima Mall. The owners of each branch in town have agreed to call the police if he is recognized. Can you do that for me?”

“... Uh... yeah, okay... Uh, I guess you've got a deal? But wait, I don't get it. Why are you doing this?”

“Don't ask me. Ask our regional director. Somehow he heard about what happened and called me this morning.”

Great, Blaine thought as Sam came out of the back room and walked towards him wearing the uniform apron. He pretended not to have eavesdropped on the conversation and Sam retold the conditions of his deal to him. “One of these days, you're going to have to tell me how you're doing this,” the blonde said, perfectly serious as he stepped behind the counter.

Bidding Sam farewell, Blaine made two decisions as he walked out the door and back over to his rental car. The first decision was that, while Sam was his best friend and he did not yet feel any pressing need to be separated from him, Blaine did not want to spend his last day in Lima before moving back to Westerville sitting in a coffee shop that reminded him so much of Kurt. Sam's shift would only be a few hours, and would end while the sun was still up. They could find something to do together when he got off. Maybe, they could get off together? 

_Hah. In your dreams, Anderson._

The second decision was that, if Blaine could not escape this thing that seemed to be following him, he would just have to embrace it. Besides, it might actually be a useful outlet so that Sam wouldn't keep looking at him like a grenade with its pin pulled. It had served a purpose before, and although he wasn't enthusiastic about putting himself back into the ring, maybe it would serve its purpose again.

That was how Blaine found himself pulling once again into the parking lot of Papa John's. As he would expect, since the store wouldn't open until noon, the front door was locked with a large CLOSED sign in the front door. Sitting on the curb nearby, uniform slung over a broad shoulder, Spencer waited for the owner to come by and unlock it.

The tall teenager immediately stood up and puffed out his chest upon seeing Blaine pull up and roll down his car window. “A pleasure to see you again, Sir.”

Blaine gave him the universal hand gesture for _take it easy_. “You're our server from the other day. Spencer, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You recognized me, but we'd never met before that night.”

“Sir, we all recognize you, Sir.”

Blaine got out of the car and walked over to the teen, arms akimbo. Spencer stood several inches taller than he—as tall as Sam, and as muscular if not moreso—yet he was obviously intimidated by Blaine. “How do you know me?”

“With respect, Sir, we're not allowed to talk about it.”

And that confirmed it. He'd gotten free pizza, he'd gotten free coffee, he'd gotten a free pass from damages done to a coffee shop. This wasn't Westerville, it wasn't Dalton, but it was here, and everything was in place.

“Give me your phone.” Spencer complied without hesitation. “I'm giving you my number. Call me next time you go.”


	8. Prince Ali

Sam Evans smiled at a disappointed, heavy sigh that clawed from Blaine's lips as the quiet parking lot filled with a booming echo: the sound of the latter's suitcases being heaved into the bed of Sam's truck. The brunette had done a pretty good job pretending he wasn't annoyed when Sam handed him back his Merino wool sweater, shrunken beyond recovery. So good a job, in fact, that Sam wasn't sure the sweater wasn't his own until Blaine had taken it from him to pack. 

“They're just suitcases. A little scratch here or there gives 'em character. They're just suitcases. He doesn't mean to trash your things. They're just suitcases.” Sam leaned against his vehicle, waiting for his best friend to say those mollifying words to himself, eyes rolled and hands raised as if to ward off exasperation.

Not forthcoming, Blaine climbed into the passenger seat without a word.

Although Blaine could easily have brought the car back to the Hertz in Westerville, Sam wasn't ready to part ways yet and had offered to drive him back to his parents' house. Blaine hadn't needed convincing before they packed supplies for the road trip into Sam's truck, and returned the rental in Lima instead.

Sam climbed into the driver's seat and turned the ignition key, pulling them out of the parking lot and onto the empty road. “Bee tee dubs, where's the Green Whale?” he asked, referring to the dark green, four door station wagon Blaine had always driven.

“It's still in New York.” Blaine reached into the small cooler set on the floor between them, cracked open a can of coconut water, and set it in the cup holder for Sam (without his asking, as if part of a routine). “Unless Kurt had it towed.”

Not-Blonde Chameleon frowned. He had ridden in that station wagon countless times during their senior year of high school. Whenever feasible, it had just made sense to save the gas money and maintenance cost on Sam's older pickup truck. Whether it was carpooling to local competitions or games, staying at Blaine's for the weekend, or even just grabbing dinner, all of their friends knew the shotgun seat was Sam's in Blaine's car. Even Tina Cohen Chang, Blaine's other closest friend, didn't vie for shotgun when he was there. 

That didn't change when they'd moved to New York after high school. The entire city was accessible by public transportation, for which Blaine had adopted a certain romanticism from Kurt. During their year living together, Blaine's station wagon had been used almost exclusively to drive Sam to the grocery store ( _When you bothered to do your own shopping_ , a Mercedes-like voice mumbled inside his head). He had flatly refused to carry his groceries on the subway or bus because, in Sam's opinion, they were filthy, and his food too easily lost or stolen if he weren't paying close enough attention, and one time they'd prompted an awkward conversation with a stranger when a pack of Magnums slipped out during a sudden halt. Sam really hoped Blaine was only joking about Kurt towing the Green Whale.

“Well, if you're planning on staying, we should probably get her.” 

“We? You don't have to come, Sam.”

“You don't think I'd let you drive her back alone? We brought Gee Dubs there together, we'll bring her back together. Maybe even stop at Black Mosh again.” 

They'd ridden the Green Whale to New York. It had kept them safe when a family of black bears had spotted them – from several hundred feet away, right before minding their own business – during a spontaneous exploration of Black Moshannon State Park. It had kept them warm when they shared the rumble seat that night, agreeing it was preferable to hunting down and paying for a cramped and dirty motel room before completing their journey the next day. Between that expedition, and high school, and New York, the well-maintained station wagon had carried them. He wouldn't abandon it any more than he would his own truck.

“I can ask my mom to come with me.”

“Don't. Plus, it seems I have the next couple weeks free.” 

“Thanks. I'll let you know.”

Sam took a swig of coconut water and turned to smile at him. But Blaine's gaze had turned blankly out the window at the completely uninteresting view of Lima. Sam couldn't help but think back on his conversation with his parents.

_“I just want to help him, Dad. It's like his world collapsed, and he couldn't stop it from happening. But when I try to help pick up the pieces he gets these weird mood swings. I dunno maybe he thinks it's all his fault and feels too guilty to accept help.”_

_“Guilt is a funny thing, Son. There's nothing so bad that you can't make it worse by adding a little guilt. And there's nothing so good you can't make it better by adding a little guilt.”_

_“Sweetie, guilt distracts us from the greater truth. Each of us has an inherent ability to heal, even through the worst heart break.”_

_“That sounds familiar. Is it from a movie?”_

_“Yeah, your mother and I were Netflix and chilling last night-”_

_“Too much info!!”_

_“Huh?”_

_“We found this heart-wrenching movie about two boys on Netflix. Oh, Sweetie you might want to give your brother a call. He looked really disturbed when he accidentally walked in on an 'adult scene'-”_

_“In the movie, right?!”_

_“Now Son, what have I told you about being crass to your mother?”_

_“That it's only okay when she's drunk and it's funny.”_

_“DWIGHT!!”_

_“You'll pay for that one, boy.”_

Sam knew he had to act to pull Blaine out of his thoughts. It was far too early in their road trip to Westerville for them to fall into any silence, comfortable or awkward. Regretting that he left his guitar at home, the blonde figured he could work with _a capella_. His best friend jumped as he enthusiastically erupted into song, all at once, at the top of his lungs.

  
[**Prince Ali (Aladdin Soundtrack)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aEryAoLfnAA)

Prince Ali, mighty is he, Ali Ababwa  
Strong as ten regular men definitely.  
He faced the galloping hordes!  
A hundred bad guys with swords!  
Who sent those goons to their lords?  
Why, Prince Ali!

He's got seventy-five golden camels,  
Don't they look lovely June?  
Purple peacocks he's got fifty-three!  
Fabulous Harry, I love the feathers.  
When it comes to exotic type mammals...  
Has he gotta zoo-  
I'm tellin' you!  
It's a world class menagerie!

Sam gestured widely and often during his serenade, imitating the voices and motions of the performance in the movie from which the song came. Blaine knew the song well enough and although he didn't join in, Sam knew he'd achieved his goal as hazel eyes softened like an adoring puppy when the song called for attention to Aladdin's physique.

"I'm going to miss you," he said, albeit still looking a tad pensive.

"You know you're welcome at mine for always. And I'm only ever a text or FaceTime away. Just don't forget me, okay Nightbird?"

"Okay, Chameleon." Blaine fist-bumped the hand he held outstretched for what Sam considered a legally binding verbal agreement.

When they had depleted their repertoire of songs from _Aladdin_ to sing, Blaine connected his phone to the auxiliary audio port of the truck's radio. For about an hour the duo stayed with the theme of cartoon musicals, covering anything from _The Little Mermaid_ to _Tangled_ , _An American Tail_ to _Ferngully_. Sprinkled between songs were breaks to munch on kale chips (for him) and Cheetohs (for Blaine), and for Blaine to check Sam's Facebook newsfeed for updates on Mercedes' tour.

The ride to Westerville seemed shorter than it ever had during all of his previous visits to Blaine's home. Before he knew it, they had pulled up to the familiar, two story house of white stone with its arch topped windows, and landscaped front yard littered with colorful flower beds and trees. It was not a palace by any means; just a four bedroom, three bathroom house with a den, vaulted ceilings, and an atrium large enough to fit a both a foosball table and a fucking pool table. It was a palace compared to anything Sam had ever lived in, and always made Sam feel as though he were in another world. A world where lawyers and doctors wearing nice clothes with no holes drank fine wine from crystal, not cheap beer from plastic.

Blaine's mother greeted them at the front door dressed in perpetual fabulosity (if that was a word). A form-hugging, dark green dress that ended at her knees somehow drew anyone's (Sam's) attention straight to her breasts. Long, wavy brown hair did not hide the glint of simple emerald earrings hanging from her ears, competing for the sunlight with the diamonds shimmering on her wedding ring.

"There's my boys," she beamed, pulling first Blaine into a hug and then Sam after he'd set his friend's suitcases down in the foyer. "How are you holding up, Honey?"

"I'm fine, Mom."

She lingered briefly on her son before turning again to Sam. "It's so good to see you again, Sam.” Visually examining his arms and torso, she admired him with feigned temptation. “Somebody has been working out, I see."

"Yes, ma'am," he affirmed, puffing his chest, thriving under the scrutiny of a woman for the first time in a long while. Pam Anderson was a stunningly beautiful woman. Curves in all the right places, open with her sensuality, and still as warm and nurturing to Blaine as a mother should be. Sam had fantasized about her more than once, much to Blaine's dismay and disgust anytime he called her Milfbird (obviously not to her face).

"Are you staying for dinner? I will make chicken in a wine and lemon crème fraîche, and a chocolate tart with caramel sauce. From scratch."

"Thank you, Mrs. A. That sounds incredible, and I hate to say no to your cooking, but I'm afraid I can't stay late. I need to call my brother." Blaine looked an implied question at him. "My parents think he might be developing a little homophobia and want me to talk to him."

"Such a respectable young man!" Turning to Blaine, "Speaking of brothers, Cooper is flying in on Saturday to see you. He was going to come home with us, but his director threatened to fire him and re-cast if he left any earlier than Friday evening."

"Okay."

Pam clapped her hands together and turned back to Sam, lightly and briefly caressing his forearm to focus his attention back to her. "How about a late lunch? I would hate for you to drive all this way just to turn around on an empty stomach. You might crash and die from hunger."

"Mom!!"

Sam giggled at Blaine's embarrassment, already accustomed to the affectionate banter that resembled but differed from his own family's. "I can eat. But I'll only agree to stay if you'll let me help you cook."

Head tilted, Pam sighed and stared wistfully at him. "You know, Blaine, sometimes I wish your brother were more like Sam. Did you know he had not a single cooking utensil in his kitchen? We stayed with him for a week and every single meal was either at or delivered from a restaurant. I hope he doesn't get diabetes from all the MSG."

"I don't think that's how it works, Mom."

"Go on and take your things upstairs, Honey. Your father is waiting for you in the den. Sam, shall we decide what to make our men for lunch?"

The hype he'd built up from her compliments deflated. Blaine's mother's parental intuition couldn't possibly have already picked up on any of his recent thoughts or actions towards her son in the last four days. "Blaine's not 'my man,' Mrs. A."

"I know that, silly goose,” she reassured, placing a hand on his bicep that made his skin tingle. “OoOoOHhhh, how about goose? ... I don't have any goose. How about salmon?" 

"Sounds delicious."

As Blaine grabbed his luggage and headed up the curved staircase to his old bedroom, Sam followed Pam to the kitchen, marveling for the umpteenth time the wonders of Blaine's house. Multiple mirrors with extravagant frames hung from the walls, flanked by ceramic candle sconces, drawing light into the rooms and hallways and giving the impression that everything was more spacious than it truly was. Matching mahogany furniture-

"All mahogany," he declared with a pretentious, high-pitched Effie Trinket impression, earning him an amused glance from Blaine's mother as the finger he ran along a shelf came up completely free of dust.

-were well decorated with family photos, colorful flowers from the garden housed in crystal, and various souvenirs from their vacations to different countries. Hardwood floors were covered by intricately woven rugs. The piano where his best friend had learned to play stood with sheet music open, immaculately polished. What impressed Sam most were the two gigantic, high definition flat screen televisions which Sam had never seen outside of Best Buy where, if he remembered correctly, they each cost between $5,000 to $8,000. But his favorite part of the house was the swimming pool in the backyard. The place was a portrait of perfection; a testament to Blaine's usual dapper and well-mannered personality. It also made Sam's apartment seem small and simple. 

Upon reaching the granite counter tops and top notch stainless steel appliances of their fully-stocked kitchen, Pam put him in charge of preparing any side dishes he'd like. He had pulled an asparagus bundle from the refrigerator and was washing the spears when the interrogation began.

"So, will you tell me the truth or will you hide it for your best friend?" Her tone had completely switched from cordial and flirtatious to assertive, imperative.

"I'm sorry?"

Pam unwrapped plastic from a tray of salmon filets, spread her hands on the kitchen island, and ensnared him with eyes that looked much like Blaine's. "I'm his mother, Sam. All I have to do is look at him to know he's not himself. It's in his eyes when he looks at me, when he looks at you. Talk. Now."

 

Meanwhile, Blaine had found that his old bedroom had not changed even a little since moving out a year ago. From the map of Europe hanging above his TV, to the hourglass and framed photos of Kurt on his nightstand, to the trophies on his dresser, not a single article had been moved. Preserving his space was apparently important to them. They hadn't been home in a week to dust, sweep the floors, or change his sheets, yet his room felt and smelled as clean as it ever was. He couldn't identify anything that had been moved more than a centimeter. 

Setting his suitcases on the rug at the foot of his bed, Blaine took a second to examine them for damage. He could unpack later, but he hadn't forgotten Sam's careless hurling of his belongings into the bed of his truck. He was actually surprised to find not a scratch on them. Okay, maybe he was exaggerating about the careless hurling thing. It's just that the contents of these bags were the last remnants of his failed life in New York – of his failed life with Kurt.

Making his way back downstairs, he heard from a distance Sam speaking with his mother in the kitchen. His best friends, Sam and Tina, seemed to genuinely get along with his parents every time they came over to hang out. They made as much effort to be good guests as his parents made to be good hosts, and could comfortably hold conversations even when Blaine stepped away. Kurt, he'd-

_Stop thinking about him, Blaine._

Not sticking around to eavesdrop on Sam's conversation, he turned down the hallway towards his father's den. He knocked on the closed door and waited until he received permission to enter.

If Blaine's mother was the quintessential woman – intelligent, nurturing, perceptive, beautiful, fashionable, self-motivated, a great cook, with musical talent that ranged from singing to playing several instruments – then Blaine's father was the quintessential man, her perfect foil. A charismatic and successful businessman, he had trained them to use their charms and good looks to negotiate; had raised Cooper and Blaine to love football and electronics; had taught them both about the engineering magic under the hoods of their cars, and how to repair many problems themselves; had exemplified a man respected for his skill, knowledge, and ability to accomplish what he wanted, rather than for the intimidating threat of physical strength or prowess.

“Hi, Dad,” he greeted, as the taller brunette gripped his hand firmly and flashed him some teeth with pride.

“Ah, my son! Welcome home. I know this isn't exactly the homecoming you were planning, but your mother and I have really missed having you around.”

“Why, she won't help you build any cars?” Blaine still harbored the impression that his father thought manly activities such as football and car mechanics would make him straight. Although he had to admit, the man hadn't seemed as hypercritical of Blaine's homosexuality over the last year or two.

His father laughed, and motioned towards a leather couch. “I did try to teach her. She was picking it up almost as fast as you did. We got to oil changes and accidentally- Let's just say she threatened castration if I ever shared the photographs with you or your brother. Would you like to see them?”

Blaine considered the offer with amusement, but declined as he sat down. He wasn't sure he could keep that secret. His father paused, studying him intently, and Blaine wondered if he was expected to say something.

“You will be okay, Blaine.”

“I'm fine, Dad.”

A finger wagged in his face. “You might be able to fool your mother with that, but not me. Can I be honest with you? I know you loved Kurt very much, but I'm a little relieved you're not marrying him.”

“It doesn't mean I'm ready to start dating girls, you know.”

“What? No, that's not what I meant. I just meant that I didn't think Kurt was right for you.”

“Why, because he was too flamboyantly gay?”

“Son, I came to terms with you being gay a long time ago. I'm sorry if I never made that apparent. I only meant that you are so strong, confident. You own yourself. Heads turn and hearts flutter when you so much as walk into a room. Your mother and I noticed that start to change when you asked to be transferred to McKinley. It took a lot of string pulling and compromising to get you enrolled in a public school outside of our district, much less our county. But I knew how much it meant to you. Even the best relationships require compromise to work. When you think back on your time with Kurt, can you honestly say that he compromised as much as you did?”

Blaine was so offended by the question that he didn't respond. Or maybe, he didn't want to entertain the possibility that his father was right.

“I don't know whether or not I'm being unfair to him. It was your business. At least now I understand why you never really wanted to vent to or confide in me, and why you only ever invited him over when I was traveling for work. In the end, you're the only one who knows the answer to that question. Regardless, no matter how lost you may feel now, I know you'll find your way again, whichever direction it may lead. You just always seemed so much more like yourself with Sam than with Kurt, that I kind of hoped you'd end up with him some day.”

“Sam's straight, Dad.”

His father's eyes locked onto his, and he grinned again, but the only thing he said was, “Pity.”

Blaine's salvation from whatever this conversation was arrived in the form of an ignorantly happy chirp emanating from the cell phone in his pocket. Eager to check the message, and to escape the weird tension that was and wasn't in the room, he asked, “If there's nothing else, I'd like to check if Mom and Sam need any help with lunch.”

“Oh, is Sam here? I should go say hello. One last thing. You can stay as long as you need or want to. This will always be your home. But you're not a kid anymore, Blaine. If you're not in school, I'd like you to consider getting a job or volunteering somewhere. Marty mentioned that Wes told him that Dalton Academy is considering hiring a graduate adviser this coming year to coach the Warblers, after last year's debacle with Hunter Clarington. If you're interested, you should check it out.”

His father left the den then, leaving Blaine alone on the couch to pull out his phone and check his messages.

 **Spencer Porter:** Tonight, 8:00 pm. Text me your address.


	9. Different

Spencer gaped as he pulled up to the house, triple checking the address that he'd typed into his map app. Nope, he'd gotten it right. The interplay of light and shadows on angles, resulting from a combination of streetlight, moonlight, and porchlight, nestled among a front yard spanning more square feet probably than his own parents' entire property, left the teenager feeling both tremendously awed and somewhat disappointed. It was a gorgeous house, the kind you'd be hard pressed to find in Lima. But from the way others spoke of him with such deference, Spencer assumed Blaine Anderson lived in some kind of mansion with a butler and a pack of guard dogs behind a security gate. This definitely was not that, but it still made him feel entirely too under dressed. Standing on the front porch he checked his tight white tee shirt for wrinkles, and deplored the stylish tear on the thigh of his jeans, before ringing the door bell.

A man wearing a charcoal gray suit and violet tie opened the door a few moments later. Shorter than him by an inch or two, the facial resemblance to Blaine prevented anyone from being mistaken for a butler. His posture mitigated any impression that he was a servant of any kind. And the critical way he sized Spencer up with piercing eyes made him squirm with butterflies in his stomach the same as when Blaine looked at him.

"Can I help you?" asked the suited man, whom he assumed to be Blaine's parent.

"Uh... I was hoping, I mean, Good evening, sir. May I speak with your son Blaine?"

The man looked at him with those eyes again, and Spencer got the distinct impression that his worthiness was being gauged. He could have sighed aloud with relief when the man stepped aside and motioned permission to enter. That feeling of being tremendously awed won over when he saw the inside of the house. He could only stand in the foyer, jaw dropped, while the man excused himself, walking upstairs, and the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in real life approached from a different direction.

"Well hello," she greeted in a sultry voice, eyeing him up and down. "You must be one of Blaine's friends?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"My son certainly knows how to surround himself with beautiful boys. Are you two staying in, or going out?"

"Going out, ma'am."

The woman glided over to a mirror and attached a silver necklace bearing small amethysts around her neck, smoothed the flowing violet gown she was wearing. "As are we. A shame our plans won't overlap."

Spencer couldn't tell if she was flirting with him, or insulting him in that subtle, condescending way he'd seen rich people do on television. "I'll have him home before midnight, ma'am."

"Blaine has no curfew." Eyebrows raised, deep hazel eyes threatened to drown him in their depths as a hand extended itself with an implied question.

"Spencer Porter." He took her hand and, entirely unsure of how to greet a woman of her caliber, brought it to his lips.

A deep cough resonated from the top of the stairs. "I hope you're not flirting with my wife," the suited man said sternly, and Spencer immediately dropped her hand. Blaine appeared beside him, to Spencer's relief, wearing a simple purple polo and black jeans. Standing beside the two adults, there was no mistaking the family relationship. 

"Mom, Dad, this is Spencer."

"And here your father fretted about leaving you alone tonight. I'm sure you two have a pleasurable evening planned."

Beautiful boy? Pleasurable? Oh. Blaine's mother thought he was a booty call. Goody. Spencer knew he should have worn a jacket or something.

The man clapped Blaine on the back. "Your mother and I will be home around eleven. Call us if you need anything. These work dinners always bore your mother."

"They bore your father, too. He's just paid to hide it."

"I will literally accept any excuse you concoct to leave early." Turning to Spencer, "Will we see you at breakfast tomorrow?"

He wasn't given the opportunity to respond. As Blaine bid his parents a good night, expressed his affections, and ushered them out the front door, Spencer's hands covered his face in embarrassment. He leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. "They think I'm a whore," he whined when Blaine returned to him mirthlessly.

"No, it's a little joke they play on my new friends." When Spencer looked at him, the brunette explained, "They like you more if you come back. Blah blah overcoming discomfort something something."

"Well I definitely was uncomfortable."

A hand appeared, offering to pull him to his feet. Spencer looked up cautiously at him. He had heard so much about Blaine 'Killer' Anderson, founder of the Dalton Academy Fight Club, ferocious, current record holder of the most consecutive wins—even though he hadn't fought a match in three years. It was said that he won two of those matches while performing a song and dance routine to a single Kelly Clarkson number. That in most of those matches he had downed men twice his size with a single blow. But nothing about Blaine reflected the arrogance his parents had enacted.

"You don't have to be uncomfortable." 

A second later Spencer was looking down at him, wiping his hands on the back of his jeans. Every preconception he'd held about 'Killer' was buried by a captivating and compassionate smile that, from the faraway look in Blaine's adorable hazel eyes, had been aroused from some fond memory.

This was not a legend. Blaine was just a person. A totally cute, super sexy, nice-assed person. _I can't wait for him to take his shirt off._

"So uh... did I hear you say we're friends?"

Blaine smirked, and gestured towards the door. "We'll see. Shall we go?" Once inside the privacy of Spencer's car and on the road, he asked, "I can't believe after all these years the Dalton faculty hasn't caught anyone."

Spencer briefly considered not responding to this line of discussion, but figured of all the places and people, Blaine was someone whom he could talk about it with. "We don't meet at Dalton. Sebastian said they did catch a meeting some time ago."

"Sebastian, as in Smythe?"

"You know Sebastian? He and I were hooking up for a while. Actually he was the one who introduced me to the DAFC." The brunette's head cocked slightly and Spencer wasn't sure if it was a reaction to finding out he liked guys, or something else. 

"Huh. I'd always wondered if he called me 'Killer' for a different reason."

"He told me he was moving to Paris after graduation, but I'm pretty sure he just went off to college somewhere here in the states. He just wanted to make a clean cut. Could have just told me, it wasn't like we were officially dating."

"Just so we're clear, neither are we." The fabric of Spencer's tight shirt stretched as he sighed disappointment. "Don't get me wrong. You're hot and the way your shirt hugs all your bulges is a bit distracting. But you're also still a minor-"

"I'm turning seventeen soon. You can't be that much older than me."

"Plus, I just got out of a long term relationship. I don't think I'm ready to date yet. You were saying about Dalton?"

Spencer retold the story as Sebastian had told it to him. Just after Hunter Clarington was expelled, without a leader, the DAFC had splintered into factions supporting two or three candidates vying for leadership. One of the championship fights got a little rowdy, and drew the attention of a teacher who had stayed late that night. No one was expelled, because Sebastian's lawyer father pointed out that expelling that many kids simultaneously was going to catch the media's attention—the last thing the administration wanted so soon after the Hunter debacle. DAFC members got a slap on the wrist, and then were forbidden from meeting anywhere on Dalton's campus unless they became a school-endorsed program, purchased protective gear, and identified a faculty sponsor. Rather than dealing with all that shit, Sebastian found the abandoned apartment complex in Lima across the street from Scandals. 

"That's when he and I met. DAFC met there for a while, but maybe three months ago they started construction to renovate the building. So now we meet in Westerville again. We don't call it the 'Dalton Academy Fight Club' anymore, although Dalton students, some of their dads, and alumni tend to stick together at meetings. Our last leader graduated at the beginning of June. We just appointed a new leader, who somehow gathered enough support to rename it 'Blaine's Army Resistance is Futile.' "

"... That is a terrible name. Like, seriously terribad. And where in Westerville do we meet?"

"In the empty warehouse behind the largest Starbucks in the city. And there are a lot more than just Dalton peeps now."

"Hold on," Blaine's hands slashed the air before him. "You meet at a Starbucks, and renamed the club BARF?"

Spencer shrugged. "I wasn't involved in the decision making process."

 

The sight before him was very familiar at this point. Dim, unobtrusive lights were barely visible in the night, made darker by the lack of adequate street lamps behind the Starbucks. Aside from one or two other men walking in the same direction, the only indication that any event would take place was a bouncer at the door of a squat, square building with absolutely nothing unique about its appearance. The bouncer recognized him and nodded but when he recognized Blaine, immediately shifted to an at-attention stance.

The inside of the warehouse was barren. Poorly lit by hanging lamps with dying light bulbs, the only items stored in the building were four wooden crates of unknown content. These had been moved to the back far wall to make as much room as possible for the crowd of men who had gathered to beat each other up. Spencer scanned the mass of guys to see if any of his own friends had showed up tonight. There were more men tonight than ever, ranging from teens to middle age, from obese to athletic; close to fifty he guessed. Catching sight of his friend Ben, still wearing his Lima Bean work clothes, Spencer led his companion to stand towards the edge of the crowd while every conversation slowly stopped, all eyes on him and Blaine.

“This is way bigger than the DAFC was."

Spencer snorted. "This is only the guys who were able to show up tonight. Stay here with me. He'll be here soon to kick off the meeting with the rules.”

“At least some things don't change.”

“Don't count on it. A couple new ones have been adopted. You'll see.” Spencer indulged himself in a private appreciation of the way the red tee shirt hung on their new leader's muscled torso as he stepped into the room and took his place at the head of the crowd. At his side, Blaine looked like he wanted to hide.

Jake Puckerman crossed his arms before his chest, voice resonant as he announced, “Welcome to Blaine's Army.” 

**Rule #1:** You do not talk about BARF.  
**Rule #2:** Seriously, don't talk about BARF.  
**Rule #3:** The fight is over if someone yells stop, goes limp, or taps out.  
**Rule #4:** Only two guys to a fight.  
**Rule #5:** Only one fight at a time.  
**Rule #6:** No shirts, no shoes.  
**Rule #7:** Fights will go on until someone wins.  
**Rule #8:** Do not cause permanent physical damage.  
**Rule #9:** Balls and faces are off limits.  
**Rule #10:** If this is your first night, you have to fight.

“We have a special guest tonight, as each of you has already noticed,” Jake continued, watching Blaine intently. “Someone who each of us owes a debt of gratitude. We've made new friendships. We've learned a lot about ourselves. Some of us didn't even know who we were until we came here. This man took an idea and made it a reality that we could all partake in.” 

Dark-skinned hands folded behind his back as Jake addressed his congregation. “Soldiers, abase yourselves!”

Joined by every single other person in the warehouse (except Jake), Spencer dropped to one knee and bowed his head in deference to the dark haired, hazel eyed VIP beside him. But as they all remained kneeling, he watched Blaine walk up to Jake.

“What are you doing here? This was a Dalton club.”

“Well it isn't anymore."

"Sorry, I just... wasn't expecting you."

"Funny, I _was_ expecting you after the other night. Welcome home, by the way.”

“You can't tell anyone about this.”

“Duh. Refer to Rules 1 and 2.”

“I'm serious, Jake.”

“Fight me first tonight, and you've got a deal.”

Spencer cheered at the proposal, as did the rest of the crowd. Blaine had no chance to decline (not that he thought Blaine would), because the crowd chose that moment to break their reverie and form up around the pair: their current leader, and their founder. A cheer rose as dozens of men chanted the name 'Killer' in unison.

Jake removed his shirt and shoes and began to circle his opponent, muscles rippling beautifully as his arms stretched. Blaine looked like he might not comply. “You must have thought about hitting me at least once at McKinley. Like maybe the time I started a fist fight, and you had to cover for me at detention because I left you with Becky.”

Blaine watched him warily. “Didn't bother me.”

Seeing the hesitation, Jake resorted to taunting—a tactic he used to draw the carnal rage out of even the most timid newbies. "Are you too turned on by my nipples? I'll give you back that puppet you made of me. You can jerk off with it, since Sam won't let you touch him.”

At the mention of Sam's name, Blaine visibly stiffened.

"Still pining after him? Come on! Or did Kurt de-claw his little pet alpha gay before dumping your sorry ass?"

Kicking off the shoes and stripping off the purple polo, Blaine tossed his belongings towards Spencer. He didn't know who this 'Kurt' was, but Sam... Did he remember Blaine calling that sexy blonde “Sam” the other night at Papa John's? He stopped thinking about it and focused on the intense fuming glare that Blaine had locked on Jake. But Blaine surprised them all by bursting into song.

[**Different (Acceptance)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=khb-u0yl4qg)  
  
Tell myself on the ride home  
Getting tired, hating all I've known  
Holding on, like it's all I have  
Count me out when it's clear that I  
Find it hard to say  
And you  
Find it hard to care  
  
I'm taking a chance  
This could be different  
This could be all I'm waiting for  
Taking a chance  
This could be different  
This could be all I'm waiting for  
  
Wanted to see  
Something that's different  
Something you said would change in me  
Wanted to be  
Anything different  
Everything you would change in me  
  


“Come on, sweetheart. This isn't glee club,” Jake jeered, approaching the shorter man to stand neck-to-nose. "Fight or leave. You can pour out your heart outside."

A dark-skinned hand was placed on Blaine's forehead, prepared to shove Blaine irreverently backward. Spencer cheered as that same hand found itself twisted at an unnatural angle behind Jake's back. Their leader didn't whine in pain, but instead laughed. His other hand gripped the back of Blaine's neck as he bent at the waist and sent the small brunette hurling through the air to crash into Ben at the edge of the crowd.

The barista quickly recovered and hopped out of the way, pushing back the perimeter of spectators while BARF's founder recovered. Okay, so this wasn't the legendary fight that Spencer thought, but it was early yet. In just over a second, Blaine was back on his feet.

Now that Blaine had made the first move, Jake saw no reason to hold back. Arms up, he stalked towards Blaine whose ears practically smoked while distancing himself from the crowd. "That's right. Give it to me, baby," he mocked almost seductively. But once he was within arm's reach the shorter man swiveled on the ball of a foot, butt muscles squeezing, and Spencer watched Jake fall back when a roundhouse kick landed hard on his chest.

Spencer called out to Blaine in warning as he charged, probably thinking to take advantage of Jake's vulnerability. But it was too late. A strong arm whipped into Blaine's path, colliding with his head and toppling him to the ground.

One moment, the blonde teen was watching two sexy guys as the bigger, stronger one knelt over the smaller one's face. The next he found himself watching in horror as Jake grabbed his idol's waist, gripping Blaine's head between his thighs, lifting him with little effort just off the ground, then dropped him. Spencer wasn't sure if the thud he heard was real or imagined. Jake stood victorious among a stunned and silent crowd for about five seconds before he, Spencer, and Ben rushed to Blaine's unconscious body.


	10. I Won't Let Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Can't predict every reader's reaction to the end of this chapter.

“Now we're gonna try this next one MacGyver Style!” exclaimed the cloyingly enthusiastic instructor, for what felt like the eighty-fourth time. Sam Evans didn't know who this MacGyver was, but if he heard the term 'MacGyver Style' one more time he was going to go all Blaine Anderson on his ass.

_Huh? Did I really just think that?_

“Grab your walkie-talkie and flashlights from your packs. Leave everything else behind.” Once everyone had complied, the instructor pulled open a door leading into a dark room. “All right, let's get to work!” 

Sam and five others stood in the doorway, shining their lights in various directions of the “smoke-filled” chamber. He could tell the room wasn't particularly large but was in a state of simulated disarray. Debris could be found everywhere; a wooden plank here, some torn clothes there, office supplies tumbling out of a broken desk drawer, and a curly-haired Asian woman laying on the floor in the center of the room, her limbs splayed out in atypical directions.

“Step Number One: Check the scene,” Sam recited, running his light along the walls and ceiling and floor. “Unit Leader to BED, come in, over,” he called into the walkie-talkie.

“BED to Unit Leader, I read you, over,” came the response.

“Unit Leader to BED, we have one casualty. The room appears secure. We're going in, over.”

“BED to Unit Leader, acknowledged. Proceed with caution, over.”

Sam motioned efficiently with his fingers for two of his fellow students to follow the right wall as they entered the room, and for two others to enter along the left wall. The remaining student became his partner as they walked towards the center, lights shining on the floor to watch for anything they might trip over.

“Oops!” their instructor called, and Sam noticed his partner standing on a black X. “Someone just fell into a hole.”

“Aw man!” Sam's partner groaned, throwing his hands down to his side.

“Curtis!” Sam shouted at him, embracing the simulation though the man stood not two feet away. “Are you all right?”

His frustrated partner rolled his eyes as he walked back towards the door. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine. Go on.”

“Unit Leader to BED, we're a man down. Request an extraction detail ASAP, over.”

“BED to Unit Leader, acknowledged. ETA for extraction ten minutes, over.”

“Oh fucking piss, I have to stand here for ten minutes?”

The instructor clapped him on the shoulder, brilliant white teeth gleaming at him. “Next time watch your footing.”

It had been days since Sam had brought Blaine back to Westerville. The conversation with Pam Anderson had been the most awkward since he'd known her, including the day he'd met Blaine's parents. Back then, their attempt to unnerve him had gone right over his head. As Sam recalled, the couple lost all pretense when he'd said something along the lines of, “Blaine wants to catch me, but this fish won't be tempted by his worm.” 

This time, no joking would have lightened the mood one iota. He had tried to limit his disclosure to Pam to his observations of his best friend's emotional state, and Sam's discussion with his own parents. The woman could tell he was holding back, and had drilled into him with Blaine's eyes until he divulged the smallest possible bit of additional information. “Don't push him, Mrs. A,” he'd told her. “It's... a little scary.” 

Mr. A had rescued him before more could be said. Over lunch, when she wasn't watching her son out of the corner of her eye, Pam watched Sam. He jerked off in his truck on the drive back to Lima. 

Nightbird had kept his promise to not forget about him, texting periodically. In his most recent message Blaine relayed an invitation from his parents for dinner, after Cooper landed. Sam gladly accepted the offer—not for the free food, because it was ridiculous to spend that much money on gas just for free food. He wanted to see Blaine. Hopefully being home with his family had helped bring some of his Bucky back. Plus, he liked Blaine's brother. 

And, he was bored out of his mind. He should have kept his job at the Lima Bean. 

Over the last few days every article of clothing, every dish, every carpet stain in his apartment was cleaned. Sam had worked out until every muscle ached while watching anything that looked remotely interesting on Netflix. He also watched porn. A lot of it. He even got bored of straight porn and tried watching gay porn. He'd been ogled and fondled by men during his stripper days; by now the sight of two guys wasn't remotely repulsive to him. Sam had to admit that lesbian porn was far more appealing than two guys, but none of it was more exciting than when his phone lit up with a message from Blaine.

Days. It had only been days without either a job or Blaine, and Sam was so bored that he had resorted to watching gay porn. He knew he couldn't spend the next couple of weeks doing this, just waiting for Blaine to need him, until McKinley's sports programs kicked off. He'd confessed his boredom to his neighbors (who had politely declined an offer to babysit their newborn). The Community Emergency Response Team certification course had been their recommendation to pass the time. It wasn't particularly long or expensive, and would give him skills he could use to serve his community in the event of a disaster—such as a tornado, terrorist invasion, or choking infant. 

Serendipitously, one of the multi-session trainings began the next day. It wasn't like school, though books were provided. Sam had managed not to fall asleep during the organization section and review of Good Samaritan Law, or succumb to panic during the first-responders-would-be-overwhelmed-if and cell-phones-won't-work warnings. When the instructor set a mannequin in front of him and they'd begun to delve into the medical stuff, Sam had really started to pay attention. This training may actually be relevant to his upcoming job should any of McKinley's athletes break a limb or suddenly drop mid-game.

“Sam! Let's go!”

“Step Number Two: Check the patient.”

All four of the other students set their flashlights down on the ground. Instead of narrow beams of light illuminating their path, the entire room became visible under the diffuse light reflecting off the walls. Sam took his own flashlight with him as he approached the curly-haired Asian woman and patted her leg.

“Are you okay, ma'am? Can you tell me your name?”

“URRRrrgggghhh...” The moan was so exaggerated that Sam couldn't help but chuckle. 

“I am CERT Man, here to rescue you. Is it okay if I check you out?” She nodded and Sam examined her as he had been taught, looking her over while gently exploring the back of her head, continuing to ask her questions. A patch of red ink had been drawn onto her bicep. As his hands moved toward the patch, the woman wailed in feigned agony.

Turning to one of the other students, Sam said, “She has a broken arm. I need an arm splint and a cravat.”

“Lemme just go get our bags-”

“Oh no!” the instructor called, and pointed his fingers at them like guns pulled from a belt holster. “You gotta use what's available. This is MacGyver Style!”

Sam hung his head and willed himself to calm down. The other students obviously weren't bothered by their instructor's uninfectious enthusiasm and repetitive choice of terminology. However, they looked completely lost without the fancy supplies provided in their backpacks. “Grab me those two rulers from the desk, and that old shirt over there. I'll work on the splint.”

“That's thinking, Sam! Now, the rest of you have to come up with the cravat. You know, MacGyver could make one of those out of a pack of gum and a shoelace cuz he was badass like that. We don't have any of that here, but what _do_ we have that MacGyver would use?”

_That's it! I've had it with him._ Sam finally lost his patience and, receiving the requested materials from the other student, screamed, “Oh my god, who is MacGyver?”

After class, he decided to stop by the Lima Bean and grab a frozen coffee. It would help keep him awake for the drive down to Westerville. Walking past a dark-clothed, dark-haired, dark-makeup-ed Goth girl offering free samples of tea (one flavor called Eternal Death, and another called Everlasting Death), Sam jumped into an atypically long line. The wait didn't bother him or sway his impulsive choice, but it did make him feel bad for his former co-workers. 

Fifteen minutes later as he approached the cash register, he saw the reason for the long line. Kathy was doing her best to brew the specialized drink orders, but Ben apparently couldn't do anything more strenuous than take orders today. Faced with a rush of customers growing more disgruntled by the minute, he stood behind the counter with a grin on his face. Disgustingly pleased with himself—like he had just gotten laid or something. 

He worked with only his right hand. The barista had a brace strapped around his left forearm, and ACE wrap bandaging the attached hand. “Dude, what happened to you?”

“Hey Sam. Got into a fight.”

“I'd hate to be the other guy.” Ben only smirked as Sam gave his coffee order. He walked over to the opposite end of the counter to wait for Kathy to make his drink, and offered his sympathies to the plea for help she threw at him. Knowing it would be a few minutes before the beverage would be ready, he sat down at a nearby table and pulled out his phone. He was pulling up Facebook when it began to vibrate with an incoming call.

“Sam?” Kurt's voice said through the line when he answered. “Is Blaine with you?”

“Nice to hear from you, too, buddy. How have you been?”

“I thought you were going to take care of him?” 

There was an urgency in his friend's voice that Sam didn't understand. “What are you talking about? He moved back in with his parents a few days ago. I'm heading down there again tonight.”

“Well did he seem okay the last time you talked to him?”

“I guess? Why, what's up?”

“I just got a voicemail from him. It was... He doesn't sound okay, Sam.” He was behind the steering wheel of his car before Kurt was finished describing Blaine's voicemail, coffee forgotten.

**[I Won't Let Go (Rascal Flatts)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BW9zMSwKIdU)**

It hurts my heart to see you cry  
I know it's dark, this part of life  
Oh it finds us all, and we're too small  
To stop the rain, oh but when it rains

I will stand by you, I will help you through  
When you've done all you can do,  
and you can't cope  
I will dry your eyes, I will fight your fight  
I will hold you tight  
And I won't let you fall

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Any other day.

It could have been any other day.

The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky and cast everything with a yellow glow that promised a warm evening. The heat seemed to wrap itself around him as he stepped out of the cool, air-conditioned car. He had pulled up into the driveway behind his dad's SUV: a solitary block of black that contrasted with the bright colors and vivid green hues of the trees and grass that surrounded his childhood home.

Upon landing and turning off his phone's Airplane Mode, he'd been shocked to receive dozens of text messages from his mother. He'd become a blur then, not slowing down for an instant until he finally approached the front door, which had been cast open. There was shouting coming from inside, a voice that resonated through walls and closed windows. The words were incomprehensible, and all that could be understood was the pain. Horrible and overwhelming, they were not the cries of physical abuse but of a man betrayed by his own heart. It was obvious that he was yelling at someone, but there was no opposition to his one-sided pleas.

His parents met him in the foyer, Pam seeking the security of his father's arms. Tears flowed freely from faces which wordlessly expressed the enormity of their helplessness. They said nothing, only nodded towards the stairs. He waited until the desperate yelling stopped and began to hear objects being flung about in frustration before taking the familiar steps and knocking on the familiar door. There was no response at first, so he tried again. And again. The crashing noises stopped, and the door was slowly, reluctantly pulled aside.

Blaine stood there before him. Had it been any other day he would have glowed before Cooper Anderson with the glorious confidence and passionate fire which had risen from the ashes of that shy, outcast boy he had been for years; the young man who had grown from the child Cooper had known before moving out. This was not any other day.

Shirtless and barefoot, clad only in jeans and a tangled mass of curled hair, Blaine stood before him devastated. Tears streamed down his face onto his neck and chest from eyes reddened and sore from an indefinite and profound sadness. Eyes that refused to meet Cooper's.

"You have to go, Coop," he moaned, leaning against the door for support. The older brother would not, could not, obey this command. Blaine's emotions flooded him and it was all Cooper could do not to feel them as if they were his own. He walked through the door into his brother's bedroom and stood at the shorter man's side.

"Blaine, I'm here."

"You have to go."

"I'm not going anywhere."

He stumbled, braced his arms against a nearby dresser. Chaos surrounded him in the form of broken picture frames and crumpled clothes and papers hurled carelessly in agony—agony personified by this man, who stood before Cooper defeated.

"Please get out."

"I'm not leaving you, Blaine." He tried to put his arms around Blaine, to provide comfort which was refused.

"Get off me, man. Leave me alone."

Blaine turned slowly and hobbled down the hallway. His movements were wretched and sluggish and confused, like someone too far intoxicated with alcohol to function properly. Cooper watched as he staggered and wobbled into a closet, and hesitated a few moments before following to give his baby brother time to collect himself.

The small walk-in closet was the only alcove in the house which the excruciating sunlight could not reach. On any other day the unparalleled talent of Blaine's amazing voice would have exploded out of this closet like a supernova. This was not any other day. He sat there small and weak, trying and failing to hide amid their mother's shoe and boot collection. Gently, silently, Cooper sat down across from him and waited.

"Leave me alone."

"I'm not leaving you, Blaine. You're my brother and I love you."

"I can't take this anymore!" he moaned through fresh tears. "I never asked for any of this!"

"I know you didn't, squirt. I know."

"Look at me, Cooper! I have no job, no school, no boyfriend, no friends, no life, and now I can't even fight. And K-Kurt, he j-just... he d-doesn't..." His last words trailed off with a sob.

The older brother tried to put a hand on his shoulder, but he protested. "Don't Coop... Just get out."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Please just get out."

"No."

"GET OUT!"

Cooper took his brother's head between his hands and forced Blaine to look into his eyes as he said firmly, "Stop it, Blaine! You're better than this!" 

For just one moment, something seemed to swirl in the depths of his brother's eyes. A brief glimmer of hope petitioning the man whom he was supposed to be, perhaps? It vanished in an instant, along with Blaine, who moved faster than Cooper had seen in nineteen years. Charging down the stairs and past their stunned parents Cooper realized that, in his desperate concern, he'd left the car running with the keys inside. Its wheels scraped against the asphalt as he followed, too late, out the front door.


	11. The Love I Meant to Say

Half an hour into the drive to Westerville, Sam was starting to freak out. With his phone set to drive mode and clamped into a mount on his dashboard, he had spent the entire time calling Blaine's cell phone. It would ring and go unanswered into voicemail. He'd already left three voicemails and sent a dozen texts, but Blaine wasn't responding. After the third voicemail, Sam figured that his friend either didn't want to listen to them or was too pre-occupied to care, and ultimately the number of missed calls and text messages would send the same message of urgency.

As he passed by the corn fields behind Indian Lake, Sam wished that he had exchanged phone numbers with Blaine's parents, or maybe his brother Cooper, or at least gotten the number to the land line at their house. In all the years they had been friends, it had never occurred to him to have some other way of contacting the house. Seriously, in this day and age, everyone just communicated through text messaging and social media anyway.

Facebook! Surely there would be someone on his extensive friend list who knew what was happening in Westerville. At least someone who knew more than Kurt. Blaine's ex had relayed the gist of an irrational, vehement rant that had ended in tears. Obviously he was worried, but Kurt Hummel didn't have time to deal with any of it. Having gotten back his internship at Vogue.com for the summer, he had a listed a variety of reasons why he couldn't or shouldn't even call Blaine back, which all sounded like petty excuses to Sam's ears. Maybe it wasn't fair to expect Kurt to jeopardize his newly-renewed job over a personal situation with an ex happening almost 600 miles away. Truth be told, Sam didn't give a shit. He wasn't equivocating, not this time. Blaine needed him, and he'd been too busy trying not to project his trepidation disdainfully at Kurt to care. 

“In other words, as usual, you don't have time for him. Everything and everyone else is always more important. You know, I miss the Kurt Hummel who helped me out when my family was homeless. This self-important Kurt-revolvey New Yorkian you've become is a giant flaming asshat. Just shut up. I have a Blaine-puddle that needs mopping, _again._ ”

Of course he had a working filter, and didn't actually say any of that. But oh how good it would have felt. 

His truck swerved as he pulled off the highway and onto the gravel shoulder. Fingers trembling with anxiety, Sam opened the app on his phone and searched for Cooper. He couldn't remember if he had friended the man, and even if he had that wasn't a guarantee that he assigned a valid phone number to his profile, but it was a place to start. He had just pulled up Cooper's Facebook page when the image of Blaine (in full Nightbird costume) took over his phone's screen and sang at him.

“Oh my god dude, finally!” he greeted as he answered the call. “Are you okay?”

“Sam?” came a voice that was not Blaine's. “This is Cooper.”

The blonde looked at his phone again in confusion. Yep, that was definitely Blaine's number. “Coop? What are you doing with Blaine's phone?”

“He left it behind. None of us actually realized it was here until Mom decided to clean his room and heard it buzzing under the mess. Eight missed calls and eleven messages, Sam? Co-dependent much?”

“Mess?” Blaine was the cleanest boy he knew. His bedrooms (both in his parents' house, and in Mercedes' apartment), were the pinnacle of organization, like at all times. “Kurt called me. I'm on my way to Westerville. What mess?”

“Blaine kind of trashed his room before stealing my car. I've been told he also punched Dad in the stomach, which: A) remind me to high-five him for that later, and 2) I wish there was video.”

“What?!” He knew it. Sam had tried to warn them, had told Mrs. A they shouldn't push him. He should never have left Blaine. _God, Sam, you knew better than that. Idiot!_ “Oh man... But he took off?”

“Yeah. Got his hands on my rental car before I could stop him. I'm going to call the agency to see if they can track it by GPS or something. Where are you?”

“Near Indian Lake. I can be there in under an hour as long as the cops don't pull me over for speeding.”

“Just stay there for now, Sam. We don't know where he's going. He might be headed to New York for all we know. You're his best friend, does he have like a special place where he goes when he's troubled?”

It was difficult enough for him to think under normal circumstances, much less this kind of pressure. “I dunno. Dalton Academy? It's always been special to him. He felt safe and appreciated there.”

“Dad is on his way there now. The school hasn't changed much over the years so he thinks he remembers all the good spots. Anywhere else?”

“Blaine won't be at Dalton.” Sam scratched his head, gritting his teeth, so frustrated that he could have thrown his phone into the middle of the highway. This was his best friend, no one else knew him better! Well, maybe Tina did. After all she had rubbed Vicks VapoRub all over his chest, and Sam had not. _Think, Sam, think!_ “I can't- I need a minute or two. Let me call you back, just give me a minute. I need to think. Wait! Coop, did he say anything to you?”

“The only things he said to me were 'I'm worthless and can't fight,' whatever that means, and 'get out Get Out _GETOUT._ ' ”

“Well, did you say anything to him before he left?”

Cooper was silent for a few seconds, thinking back to the interaction. “I think I said, 'I love you' and 'You're better than this' right before he lightninged out the door without even putting on a shirt.”

That second sentence sounded familiar, but Sam couldn't place it—like encountering a familiar smell but unable to recall why it's familiar. The saying wasn't particularly unique, though Sam could count on one hand the number of times he'd heard anyone say it in real life. Nothing seemed to click. “Thanks, C. Text me your cell number. I'll call you back in a minute.”

Sam didn't waste any time after Cooper hung up, immediately dialing the only other person who knew Blaine as well as he did. “Sam? Hi, stranger!”

If Tina Cohen Chang had been standing right next to him at that moment, he would have tongued her just for picking up on the first try. “Tina, I need your help. That is, Blaine needs our help, so I need your help. Help me!”

“Woah woah woah. What's going on? The last thing I heard from Blaine a couple days ago he had just broken up with Kurt.”

“No, that was just his Facebook status change. They actually broke up like months ago. Maybe a month ago. I don't remember how long ago. _It's not important right now!_ ” he emphasized, nerves attenuating to the melodramatic reaction he could hear brewing on her end. “Listen, Blaine moved back in withhisparentsthisweek andapparentlyhadameltdownandstoleacar sonowwe'relookingforhim butwedon'tknowwherehemighthavegone soIneedtoknowwhatyouknowabouthimthatIdon't!”

“Breathe!” she instructed.

“There's no time for that, Tina!” Sam complained, but made more of an effort to slow his pace. “We need to find him. Do you know where he goes when he needs to get away?”

“Duh, the choir room at Dalton? He only goes there always.”

“I don't think he'd go there this time. Something's... something's really wrong. He'd want to be alone in a quiet place with no people, so he could think.”

Now it was Tina's turn to think. “Uh... he used to punch the punching bag in the McKinley weight room. Not that I was ever allowed in there, even when it was empty.”

“ _Men's_ weight room, attached to the _men's_ locker room, Tina. Sometimes I'd go with him and lift while he boxed. He liked to pretend it was people's faces, to blow off steam.”

“Like yours!”

“No Tina, it wasn't my face he pictured blowing.”

“Gross, and also you know what I meant.”

“I don't. When did I ever piss him off?”

“The day you moved back to Lima during our junior year. He told me that you two got into an argument during Sectionals practice. I mean I wasn't there, but he almost trampled me on his way to the weight room.”

“Right, our superhero origin story! He told you about that?”

“He told me that the reason he went back to practice that day was because Finn found him and went all Awesome Leader Guy and got you both to rally behind our metaphorical flag. Finn was always...” 

If Tina said more after that, it was lost beneath the blood drumming behind his ears as clarity replaced all the apprehension and uncertainty and jittery disquiet he had felt for the last half-hour.

Click.

“I know where he is. Asian Persuasion, you are amazing!” Blaine's best friend sent a quick message off to Cooper, hopped behind the wheel of his truck, and turned it back towards Lima.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

_“We met right here,” Blaine read sitting on the front porch of the Hudson-Hummel house, explaining, “We're going to be at the stairwell.”_

_It was Friday. Having deftly escaped another week of terrible torture at McKinley, he and Sam were making a quick stop before meeting Tina at the movies—Sam to drop off his bag and grab a quick snack, and Blaine to change out of his Cheerios uniform despite Tina's declaration of how sexy he was wearing it. Only a short time remained until the day he intended to propose to Kurt, and the engagement ring he had purchased burned with anticipation._

_Plans had already been finalized with Burt Hummel, their friends in New York, their friends still in New Directions, the Dalton Academy Warblers and the school's administration, Carmel High's Vocal Adrenaline, and the deaf choir from Haverbrook. With the collaboration between these rival schools, Blaine's proposal to Kurt would be the most unifying event of the year. But none of that would mean anything if his speech wasn't perfect. As his best friend and his best man, Sam had offered to be a sounding board._

_“I took this man's hand,” he shoulder-bumped Sam as the blonde grasped his hand playfully, “and we ran down that hallway. And those of you who know me know I'm not in the habit of taking people's hands I've never met before. But I think my soul knew something that my body and my mind didn't know yet: it knew that our hands were meant to hold each other, fiercely and forever. Which is why it's never really felt like I've been getting to know you. It's always felt like I was remembering you from something. As if in every lifetime you and I have ever lived, we've chosen to come back and find each other and fall in love, all over again, over and over, always and forever-”_

_Sam shook his head, hands cutting the air before him. “Okay, stop. You already said 'forever' so you can't say it again. Try 'for all time.' ”_

_“How about 'for all eternity?' ”_

_“Perfect. Also, when you said 'fiercely' it made me think of hostile animals tearing each other apart.”_

_“You know it has other meanings, right?”_

_“Do you really want to risk it?”_

_“Okay uh... 'fearlessly?' ”_

_“Courageously heroic bromo in shining armor. Much better.”_

_Blaine pulled a pencil from his backpack and made the corrections on the sheet of paper he held before resuming. “And I just feel so lucky that I've found you so soon in this lifetime because all I want to do, all I've ever wanted to do is spend my life loving you.”_

_Sam put an arm around his shoulder and gripped his forearm affectionately, pulling Blaine against the firm planes of his chest. “It's perfect, B. There's no way he could say no. Hell,_ I _want to marry you now.”_

_Mere weeks ago, Blaine might have taken the statement in a completely different manner. Now he shrugged it off, laughing, as Sam being Sam. Blaine considered himself lucky to have a best friend who'd accepted his infatuation and attraction to him so easily, been flattered instead of revolted. The blonde had come to him, letting Blaine know that he knew, and hadn't lied when he said nothing would change between them. In a strange way it brought them even closer._

_Though resolved to win back Kurt's heart, Blaine knew at some level he would always be attracted to Sam, and sometimes he found himself comparing the two. Like, it would be incredible if Kurt would have something to say about a Marvel movie that had something to do with its plot. But Blaine knew the endgame was Klaine, and not Blam._

_He folded the paper, shoving it and the pencil back into his bag. “Thanks! I just hope that Finn can be there. Other than me and his dad, Finn is the most important man in Kurt's life. Their relationship is special to him, and I know he would want him there.”_

_Sam got to his feet and started rummaging around in his pocket for the door keys. “Well his car's in the driveway. Here's your chance to ask him.”_

_Few people dwarfed Blaine as severely as Finn Hudson. Standing at 6'4” Finn towered over him such that even slouching, Blaine's head tucked under his chin barely past his shoulders. Combined with the build of a high school football quarterback, here was a man who could easily have ruled McKinley's student body by fear if he'd chosen—the way that some jocks like Dave Karofsky and pre-New Directions Noah Puckerman had tried, without the added clout of Finn's popularity. But he had never been like that, never even successfully attempted to intimidate anyone. He was especially un-intimidating now, sitting on the living room couch with his hands covering his face._

_No, Finn was a gentle soul. Kurt's preferred knight in shining armor before they'd met. Blaine came to understand why during the development of their friendship, starting with that afternoon at the punching bag. Finn's disarming apology for alienating Blaine, so genuine, with such integrity, deflated his anger towards both Finn and Sam quicker than he could exhale a breath._

_The giant could easily have chosen to abandon the friendship when Blaine and Kurt broke up the following year. After all, he and Kurt were brothers of a fashion. Add on breaking up with Rachel and feeling aimless after a semi-honorable discharge from the army, and Blaine wouldn't have blamed him. Instead Finn offered what support he could, even if it only meant updating him on Kurt's life when they weren't speaking, or reminding him how important he was to their friends in New Directions._

_Or when they'd each tried and failed to clear the air with Kurt and Rachel after Grease. They'd bumped into each other on the way back to the choir room to listen to Fletcher Mantini's review. Each knew the look in the other's eye, what it meant when their heads shook. Somehow walking shoulder-to-elbow down the hall, commiserating with someone who understood, made the rest of the evening a little more tolerable._

_“College isn't like public high school,” Burt said from the coffee table in his matter-of-factly father voice of wisdom, “and not just because you have to pay tuition. It's harder, but you're worth it and I know you'll do better next time. You just gotta say 'Okay, there's room for improvement' and get back at it. You know?”_

_Burt nodded in Blaine's and Sam's direction as he patted his stepson on the back and walked out of the living room towards the kitchen. “I'll start dinner. Carole is working tonight but I promised to feed you before you left.”_

_“Finn!” both he and Sam shouted in unison, running over to greet their mutual friend. Neither had seen Finn as often as they'd liked since he'd moved into the college dorms. Their excitement wasn't particularly catching, as Finn remained seated on the couch and looked up at them with a miserable expression. The pair flanked Finn on the couch._

_“Oh no, did someone hurt your dog? I'll make them pay!”_

_“No, Sam,” Finn sighed, exasperated. “You know we don't have a dog. You live here.”_

_“You could've gotten a dog.”_

_“What's wrong, man?” Blaine asked, giving Sam a stare that warned him off the topic of the non-existent dog. “Did something happen at school?”_

_The giant sank back into the cushions of the couch, staring at the hands in his lap. “I failed a test.”_

_“Man, I told Puck to stop having threeways in the top bunk while you're trying to sleep! It's not cool. It's just like my dad says: Rest before tests for your best.”_

_“No, Sam. Puck is fine. He's been pushing me to try harder and apply myself and party less, so that I don't become a crappy teacher. He even helped me study for my sociology test.”_

_Blaine and Sam stared at their friend in disbelief and asked, simultaneously, “_ Puck _helped you study?”_

_“Yeah, like asked me questions out of the workbook. The answers were in the appendix, so he didn't actually have to know any of the things. I mean the girl giving him head was a little distracting, but I still passed.”_

_Setting aside the image of Noah Puckerman getting sucked off while quizzing Finn on college-level sociology, Blaine shook his head in confusion. “But, if you didn't fail the test then why are you so down?”_

_“I didn't fail sociology but I failed my chemistry test! I studied so hard, Blaine. All the electron orbitals and balancing chemical equations... I'm so tired...”_

_“I don't understand,” Sam interjected. “Why are you taking chemistry when you're enrolled in a teaching major? Shouldn't you be learning about like, how to write and grade homework assignments?”_

_“It's part of my general education requirements. I'm never going to be a teacher! I'm fooling myself and wasting all of Mom's money. And Burt's great, but it's just like how Ryder's dad used to just say 'Ryder just needs to apply himself and work harder' before we found out that he was dyslexic like you, Sam. But I'm not dyslexic, and I tried so hard. I've been at the library every night with my study group. I went over everything that I didn't understand with my professor during his office hours.”_

_The hands came up again, this time tugging the hair on the back of Finn's head until the entire upper half of his body collapsed against his knees. “I'm too stupid to get this. I'm the same failure that I was in high school. Who was I kidding to think I could be anything else?”_

_Blaine dragged the hands away from Finn's head, grasped the sides of his face between his own fingers, and met the despair in Finn's eyes with hazel fire. “Stop it, Finn. You're better than this.”_

_“I'm not, man. I'm gonna flunk out and Rachel's never going to take me back.”_

_Wait, where did that come from? “Is that why you're doing this? Going to UoL, trying to become a teacher? To get Rachel back?”_

_Finn's eyes narrowed as he considered what Blaine asked, and he leaned back on the couch again. “No.”_

_“Then why?”_

_“Because Marley said that I was a natural leader and a teacher, and I shouldn't let other people define me.”_

_“You are a natural leader, Finn,” Sam confirmed, patting the giant on his back. “So what, you're doing this because a sophomore told you to go get a teaching degree?”_

_“No!” Finn practically shouted, looking kind of offended._

_“So, what is it? What does Rachel have to do with your chemistry test?”_

_“She always wins, Blaine! She got into NYADA even though Carmen Tibideaux rejected her. She won their Winter Showcase as a freshman which Kurt says is like a historic milestone. She got Fanny Brice in Funny Girl. Every time she wins something, she calls me. Do you know what that's like? To have the love of my life, who I can't be with, call me at every one of my failures to share news that she's just won something? I just wanted to be able to say next time, 'Hey, I passed all of my college classes this semester. I don't suck. I'm not a Lima Loser.' ”_

_“Okay,” Blaine conceded, placing a calming hand on Finn's enormous shoulder. “You don't suck, and you're not a loser, and I know dozens of people who agree with me.”_

_“Don't make him prove it,” Sam warned. “He'll make a video and everything.”_

_“You passed sociology, with Puck helping you study. That, to me, is two milestones in one. And I'm assuming that since you haven't said anything about your other coursework, that things are going fine with your other classes, too. Look, chemistry is a difficult subject. There are some very smart people who don't get it. You're not stupid, Finn, you just maybe shouldn't be taking chemistry. Everyone is entitled to making mistakes. You and I both know that. It's a gen ed requirement so that makes it an elective that won't affect your teaching credential. It's probably not too late to drop out of the course, college students do it all the time. And you can sign up for another course next semester that fulfills the same requirement, but isn't chemistry. Like maybe a zoology class, especially if they offer one that's designed for non-science majors.”_

_“What's zoology?”_

_“It's the study of animals and their behavior and stuff like that. No electron orbitals.”_

_Sam perked up. “Like their mating habits? You could make Puck your senior thesis.” Blaine smacked the back of his head, though he could swear he saw the curve of Finn's lip twitch._

_“That doesn't sound too bad. I've always wondered how giraffes do it. But what about Rachel?”_

_“How many classes are you taking? Four? I think passing three out of four college classes while also living with Puck during your first semester is a major achievement. And dropping a college course before the deadline is not the same thing as failing.”_

_“If you put a positive spin on it, there won't be any pity involved. So you found out that chemistry isn't your thing. It's not mine either, or Blaine's. Actually, I don't know anyone who has a thing for chemistry. It's a good thing you found out now instead of four years from now after paying like a billion dollars in tuition.”_

_“Sam's right, dude. College is all about learning. Not just textbook learning, but learning things about yourself and how to be the adult that you want to become.”_

_“And you weren't a failure in high school. You were The Quarterback_ and _New Directions' guiding hand. You like, changed the game all over the school, forever, man. And then you came back and The Almighty Treble Clef made an even bigger impact. Go ask Ryder where he'd be now without you.”_

_“Besides, Rachel has never once thought of you as a loser. The only person judging you here, Finn, is you. Now, I have to warn you, neither Sam nor I take kindly to people who judge our friends as harshly as you have. I'm afraid that in order to win our respect back, you're going to have to join us for a movie with Tina tonight.”_

_Long arms curled, pulling both he and Sam so close that their three heads almost bumped. “You guys are the fucking best.”_

_While Sam ran to his old bedroom to drop off his bag, Finn leaned in to whisper in Blaine's ear, “How do you know so much about college stuff?”_

_“It's a story for another time. I'll tell you later.”_

_Tina was pleasantly surprised when Finn showed up at the theater with her boys. They'd had a great time that night, Blaine accidentally forgetting to ask Finn about his impending proposal to Kurt. He dropped Finn and Tina at their respective homes, while Sam came home to Westerville with him in the Green Whale on a spontaneous decision to spend the weekend together for the umpteenth time._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

None of them knew that would be the last time they saw Finn Hudson alive.

At first neither believed it, sitting in shock on that same porch and staring at nothing. It was some kind of cruel joke, it had to be. Reality didn't hit them until the first of Carole's wails tore through the windows and echoed down an empty street. A tear escaped from the corner of Sam's eye. Blaine wiped at it with the corner of his sleeve, catalyzing a flood that felt like it would never end.

Burt made the funeral arrangements while Carole busied herself notifying everyone and accepting whatever solace they offered. Blaine and Sam volunteered for friend duty: picking up Kurt and Rachel from the airport, texting the location and time of the wake to those who arrived separately, addressing all the questions posed on social media, making sure that Santana and Kitty didn't offend anyone with however they expressed their grief.

Blaine remembered that at one point, Sam just couldn't take it anymore. He'd stepped outside the viewing room and run up a nearby hill overlooking the cemetery to get away from... all of it. Finn's relatives whom he'd never met collapsing against the walls in tears. The whispered goodbyes that everyone heard but pretended not to. All the people recounting the last time they had spoken or seen him, which Sam couldn't remember.

And Finn, lying there peaceful and still and cold.

He didn't know how long he'd stayed on that hill. Long enough to see Puck run out in the opposite direction, followed by Quinn and his brother Jake. Sam had thought maybe Mercedes or Brittany would come looking for him. They hadn't. Blaine had. Of course he had.

Sam had confessed to feeling like a horrible friend for not recalling his final moments with Finn. But Blaine did and had just finished telling all of their friends about that afternoon, when together they had raised Finn out of a hell of his own personal making. And Blaine's strength failed as he told the story again to help Sam remember. Blaine, whose tears had dried on Sam's shirt by the time that Tina and Mike came out to find them.

And then Kurt and Rachel.  
And then Artie and Mercedes.  
And then Ryder, Kitty, Marley, and Unique.  
And then Mr. Shue, his wife Emma, and Coach Bieste.  
And then every New Directions member, past and present, who had come to say goodbye to Finn Hudson.

[ **The Love I Meant to Say (SMASH Cast)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jrNiina93n8)

Over, I can't believe it's over  
I can't believe the love I left  
To show some other day

Listen, I hope that you can hear me  
As I kneel down and pray  
With the love I meant to say

Shadows, you took away the shadows  
Before you life was black and white  
Though tonight the room's gone gray

Golden, all the love you gave was golden  
Gold that I would gladly pay,  
To show the love I meant to say

Oh, music you made me hear, such music  
Without you here to guide me,  
I fear our song will fly away

Sorry, that's the word I want to sing to you  
The other word is stay  
To hear the love I meant to say 

“Hi Finn,” Blaine said, placing a hand on his friend's gravestone.


	12. Hear Me Now

Each visit to this place became a little less difficult, the memories less vivid.

As expected, Woodlawn Cemetery was virtually empty when he arrived. From where he parked his car Sam could see that someone knelt at Finn's plot, back turned to him, the pink flesh of exposed skin contrasting against green grass, the brown bark of thriving trees, the stone markers of the graveyard. He almost rampaged out of his truck, ready to attack whatever perverted bastard was having public sex on top of his friend's grave. Recalling that Cooper mentioned Blaine hadn't worn a shirt, Sam's irritation commuted to relief. He made a mental note to give Tina whatever she wanted in return for her part in locating his Bucky, even if it was a picture of his junk. Cooper too, if he wanted it.

_"If anyone can help him through this, it's you, son."_  
_"He trusts you, sweetie."_  
_"Even in his darkest hour, he won't run from you. Remember that."_

Even this weird, distorted abomination of Blaine was still Blaine. Were Sam anyone else... but Sam wasn't anyone else, not to Blaine. He knew it, but the situation was delicate. Since returning to Ohio he had seen the shorter man weep, enraged to violence, and mortified into retreat. If he heard someone approach and didn't know immediately that it was Sam, he might disapparate or he might throw up his fists. This was no time to play games. Blaine needed know he was here first, or would never hear him at all. Not-Blonde Chameleon grabbed the guitar from his passenger seat, closed the door of his truck as quietly as possible, and strummed light chords strolling as fast as he dared towards two friends: one dead and buried, and one who might be wishing he were.

[**Hear Me Now (Boyce Avenue)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6tn3WvPE9bM)

It wasn't always this feeling  
Put out the world for a tear in your eye  
Oh God I'm over here kneeling  
It seems we're fighting for truth with a lie

Sometimes I wish it was easy  
To leave the ones that we love behind  
Oh God just help me believe it  
Still so much harder to say goodbye

I'm falling over the edge with you  
You're falling over the edge with me  
With me  
Can you hear me now 

You got me standing here pleading  
Won't you please help me keep this alive

Close enough now to see the sunlight's warmth dissipate around Blaine, creating a dark aura that seemed to breathe with him. Closer still to see that Blaine's hair dripped with water used to slick back his hair rather than hair gel, probably from one of the babbling brooks maintained by the groundskeeper. Mere feet away, Sam almost forgot the lyrics to the song in alarm. 

Not a dark aura at all. Discolorations marred the surface of Blaine's flesh. Bruises. Big ones, spread over his back and shoulders, forming a patchwork tapestry of aching pain. If this was what his back looked like, Sam wasn't sure he could handle seeing the front. Cooper hadn't said anything about this, had said Blaine punched his dad not the other way around. Even if he had, Sam would never believe that Mr. A would do this to his son, or that the potent Mrs. A would allow it.

The headstone of Finn's burial plot was an elegant peak-top upright marker made of both a light gray and a dark gray granite, crowned by the embossed likeness of a drumset. At the foot of its base sat a bouncing bouquet of scarlet carnations, letting him know that Carole had visited perhaps a day or so ago. She always made sure her son's grave had fresh flowers on display. Sam had accompanied her more than once before graduating high school, before moving to New York, lending his arm if and when she faltered.

Here, too, Blaine knelt, staring at the name carved in stone with dry but reddened eyes. Sam set his guitar down, sat close enough to his best friend that their knees touched, and waited for him to speak first.

“How did you know?” Blaine asked, picking at the grass.

Reaching for his friend, excluding any humor, clever impressions, or flirtatious insinuation, Sam replied, “Oel ngati kameie.” _I see you._

Blaine said nothing else for a long moment. Sam took the opportunity to unobtrusively examine the front of his friend's naked torso. As feared, it was just as bad as the back; covered in bruises and scratches, but thankfully no deep cuts, evidence of severe bleeding, or visibly broken bones. He traced every contour, every bump and curve, recent CERT training doing with his eyes what he couldn't with his hands.

“I wish my plane had crashed. I thought about it, you know, on the flight back here. How much easier it would be if... just if.”

“I'm glad it didn't.”

“Why?”

“I love you, B. You're my best friend.”

“You deserve one who's better than me.”

“There's no such thing. You're everything I could ever want.”

“I'm nothing!” Blaine turned to meet his gaze. Ferocious, almost irradiating, challenging Sam to prove wrong what he had convinced himself to be true.

Sam figured it out, then. The free coffees and pizzas. The way people addressed him as 'Sir.' The violent ways he had assaulted that guy. The look of death in Blaine's eyes, similar but not identical to the look which crossed them while he was boxing. The bruises and scratches. Mr. A hadn't beaten Blaine at all.

“You went back to Fight Club. Who did this to you?” 

“All of them. Jake, Spencer, Hunter, Ben... I wasn't strong enough! I wasn't good enough!” 

His brain assumed it possessed enough information to complete the identities of the names Blaine listed off. Jake Puckerman. Spencer Porter. Hunter Clarington. Ben, uh... from the Lima Bean. It took everything Sam had to stay focused on helping Blaine, sweep the outrage from his features, suppress the desire for justice—no, vengeance. Nobody would ever touch Blaine again and get away with it.

The brunette stood abruptly. Sam thought he might make a run for it. Instead Blaine just stood, stare boring down at him. 

“Blaine, you can't expect to just saunter back into Fight Club and be top dog after three years. Even if you hadn't just broken up with Kurt, you haven't been boxing or working out the way you used to. You're out of practice.”

“You don't get it, do you? They brought me to the hospital the first night. I was unconscious, they thought I had a concussion from when my head hit the cement. _The first night,_ Sam. I've lost _all_ of the fights. And then Mom and Dad tried to forbid me from hanging out with Spencer. If I can't fight, I have nothing!”

“Okay, so we'll train! Come running with me, or we can go to the gym, or we can find a whatever they're called with a coach from Rocky. We'll do it together, me and you.”

“No!” Blaine screamed, kicking Carole's vase of flowers. Sam didn't flinch, didn't watch it fly past his head, confident that his best friend would never hurt him. He heard the ceramic shatter against the paved path behind him. “Why are you here? You don't... I'm not...”

Deliberately slow in his motions so as not to startle the boy, Sam got to his feet and embraced Blaine against his beating heart. “This. This is why.” 

Blaine didn't run. It took a second but hands eventually found their home settled behind his shoulders, drew him closer. “You're not nothing, Blaine. You hear me? You're not nothing.”

They stayed like that for an eternity. Not talking, not weeping, not anything but holding each other. Sam's mind reeled, yearning for more revelation, scouring for anything he'd seen in the last few days that he hadn't seen. How had Blaine degenerated this far just in the days since moving back to his parents' house? 

_Blaine smiled weakly at him over a shoulder. “You still do oatmeal and egg whites on Mondays, right?”_

_As if hearing Blaine's unspoken thought, Sam's strong arm found its way around his friend's waist while another flipped off the light on a nearby nightstand. “I'm right here, B.”_

When he'd arrived in Lima he'd been melancholy, but he walked and talked like Blaine, sang like Blaine, dressed like Blaine, reacted to Sam like Blaine. Was this Sam's fault? He was the one who'd forced Blaine to change his Facebook status, who'd driven him back to Westerville and left him behind.

_“You want everyone to treat you normal, because you're Blaine Anderson. You handle things. You're the strongest guy I know, but you're hurting and it would be nice if people could just acknowledge that nothing is normal without pissing you off with their insignificant crap.”_

No, not Sam's fault. 'His' Blaine had not arrived in Lima, had not cried himself to sleep in Sam's arms that night. Everything Sam witnessed recently was but the culmination of weeks of depression. He hadn't just lost Kurt. He'd lost his home in New York, his closest friends when their paths had split, his connections through June Dolloway and NYADA, his community, his career, his dreams for the future. Blaine, the adult that he had strove so hard to become, had been systematically deconstructed until he had nothing left. He put on a good show, but this person believed himself an empty shell, twisted and strangled and alone.

With each aspect of that life lost, so, too, was a part of Blaine. It wasn't that Blaine felt too guilty to ask for Sam's help rebuilding. Blaine didn't want to rebuild his life, because he didn't think it was worth the effort anymore. He was 'nothing.'

If Blaine didn't recover from this, he would never forgive Kurt. But his best friend—his bromo, his Bucky, his brother in every way that mattered—hadn't lost everything. He had something left.

“You're a part of me, Blaine. Please come back to me.”

Sam could feel every taut, knotted muscle in the shorter man's body unwind and acquiesce. Rather than assuaging his concern it made him doubtful, cautious. It had to be a trick, a surface response. Nothing was ever as easy as asking for what he wanted. What was Sam missing?

_Blaine picked up Sam's phone, and logged into his own Facebook account. “I don't like Tough Love Sam. Can't you just hug me again?”_

_"I'm going to miss you," Blaine said, albeit still looking a tad pensive._

“I'll never leave you again, B. I promise.”

Blaine's voice was a breath whimpered between them. “Sam...” 

_Blaine breathed his name, glanced down between their bodies. The boy on top took this as his queue to release the hold. But once he was up, offering a supporting hand to pull the brunette to his feet, he noticed that his gay friend's attention was drawn to a hard bulge in Sam's jeans. Which must have pressed into Blaine's stomach. Which must have pulled him back from whatever had possessed him._

Could it really be that simple?

Blaine's hands didn't move from his back as he, with gentle fingers, lifted the shorter man's chin. Hazel eyes became enslaved by green, looking up at him beyond the expanse of his chest, the curve of his neck. Filled with remorse. Sparkled with trust. Pleaded for guidance. Enthralled by hope.

He had never looked more captivating.

In this moment, nothing mattered more than breaking down Blaine's walls, taking away all of his hurt, healing him, protecting him, assuring him that everything would be okay. That he was not alone, never alone. 

“What are you doing?”

“What you need me to do.” Massive, trout-like lips danced over Blaine's with forbidden temptation. Cupping the shorter man's wet hair with one hand, Sam ached to push forward faster, his body recognizing the way this man felt in his bed; this gay man with whom he'd been more intimate than any woman in a very long while.

“Wait. Don't,” Blaine begged, taking a step backward. Sam watched him turn around, leaning on both hands against Finn's headstone, head hanging between his shoulders. “I'm so sorry.” 

Sam thought at first that the words were directed at him. They weren't. “Finn, I'm sorry. Kurt... I won't be able to watch over him. Not anymore.”

For a split second, Sam believed he saw their tall friend standing with them, opposite of the shorter man at the gravestone. He was dressed as Sam always remembered him, in a plain t-shirt and jeans, not as he had seen him last in his burial suit. A giant, intangible hand was placed on Blaine's shoulder. Another set of eyes locked onto Sam's. Another pair of lips moved, Sam's moving synchronously with them, and the voice Sam heard was not his own but Finn's.

“It was never your job to do that. We watch over each other. All of us.”

And Sam saw why Blaine had almost driven himself to an eating disorder before he and Rachel and Mercedes left New York—burying himself in Cheetohs and ice cream and cronuts, wanting to stay ahead of Kurt in 'the race'—was that he'd tasked himself with watching over Kurt, picking up where Finn left off. An unspoken succession that Blaine could no longer fulfill. 

Before meeting debonair Dalton mentor-like Blaine, Finn had watched out for Kurt in high school; had been Kurt's Superman. The way Sam was Blaine's Captain America. To protect him from cruel realities and cast away tormenting demons and villains, inside or out—the reason their brotherhood-by-marriage had been so special. The way Blaine had always done for Sam—the reason their brotherhood-by-bond was precious to him.

If Blaine couldn't, then Sam had to. He let go of the animosity he'd built towards Kurt that day, and vowed to reconnect with Blaine's ex once his best friend recovered.

For Finn.

The apparition faded into the sunlight with an encouraging smile, as Blaine fell tumbling back into Sam's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone for all the comments and encouragement so far! Sorry this one is so short. I just had to get it out of my head. I'm planning to add one more chapter before Christmas. Needless to say, Blaine's journey isn't over any time soon and Sam's is just beginning.


	13. Lift Me Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays, everyone :) See you again in the new year.

Blaine said nothing during the drive back to the Richelieu Apartments. 

They stayed at the cemetery just long enough for Sam to collect the shards of the shattered flower vase and deposit them in a nearby trashcan, brush the dirt from the flowers, and set a heavy stone (taken from the nearby brook) over their stems to prevent them from being blown away from Finn's grave by wind. Sam didn't ask for any help doing this, didn't ask for anything except for Blaine to put on the turquoise t-shirt that he removed from his own back. Then, ushering him to the passenger seat of his truck and sending a couple texts into the ether, they left together.

A group of children and three adults accosted Sam, oblivious to the blonde's shirtless state, at the foot of the staircase leading up to his unit. The young hobbits demanded to know if they could 'sing guitar' today. Sam greeted each child by name, submitted his apologies, and said to the parents, “It's been a rough day.” 

Sam grabbed his hand and led him upstairs and inside. Waiting for Sam to unlock his front door, Blaine had to suppress an urge to punch a mother in front of the children when he noticed her watching the two of them disapprovingly.

He went to sit down on the couch but Sam tugged on his hand again and pulled him into the bathroom, flipping on the lights and turning a handle in the bathtub. Running water crashed and steam rose, and the taller man came to stand in front of him. “Can I see?” he asked, taking the hem of the shirt between his fingers. Blaine nodded permission.

The shirt was lifted off, and he did not blush as both eyes and hands ran over his skin. “Tell me if it hurts,” Sam said, pressing fingers at the back of his neck, over his shoulders, along each arm, down his chest, across his back and stomach. Each bruise was tender and sore, but nothing indicative of more serious injury.

“Take off your pants.”

“Uh...” 

“Relax, dude. I'm just checking you out.”

“Are you a doctor now?”

“Do you need one?” His facial expression was all serious concern, without trace of infantilizing pity. Blaine sighed, but unbuttoned his jeans and let them fall to his ankles. Sam knelt and hands moved strongly over his thighs and buttocks, his friend's face way too close to his crotch.

“Can I ask you something?” Sam asked as he worked. “You said you weren't 'good enough,' but I've watched you pin a man to a table with nothing but a fork. What did you mean?”

Blaine didn't respond, looked at his reflection in the mirror. Each of the bruises throbbed simultaneously.

“You weren't talking about Fight Club. You were talking about Kurt. That's why you apologized to Finn, right?”

When did Sam become a mind reader?

“You 'lost all the fights.' Is that really what happened?” his friend asked, getting to his feet again.

Blaine couldn't look at him. “Stop, Sam.”

His friend was quiet. Then, without judgment, “You threw them. On purpose. Why?”

To make the outside match the inside? “Because it felt good to feel something.”

A quizzical eyebrow raised at that. “You don't seem to have a problem feeling.”

“Something different.”

Fingers caressed and cupped his cheek, turned his face so that he couldn't avoid Sam's question. “Something physical?”

Blaine nodded again, this time mildly astonished that his friend vaguely understood. “One of the rules is that fights end if someone yells 'stop' or taps out.”

And then he felt fingers under the rim of his underwear, and before he could jump out of his skin Sam tugged out the elastic and let them fall to the floor. He barely had time to cover his genitals with his hands. “Hey, you ain't got nothing I haven't seen before. Little Blaine and I have already met, and you got nothing to be ashamed about. Plus, you've seen me naked, too. You don't have to be uncomfortable. Come on, get in.”

Blaine blushed and did as instructed, placing a foot into the scalding hot water, inhaling sharply between his teeth. He wanted to take it back out, but Sam was behind him, hands on his shoulders guiding him down into the water. By the time he lay on his back, neck-deep, the heat actually felt soothing.

Sam sat down on the toilet seat and pulled out his phone. Was he... taking pictures?

“No, I'm not taking pictures, perv. Just gimme a sec.” Hissing success at finding something, Sam left him in the tub and returned several minutes later, pouring a white powder into the water. Blaine yelped as the entire tub began to bubble and fizz. “Don't worry, it's supposed to do that. I think.”

“What is it?”

“Haven't you ever seen the _Karate Kid?_ The original trilogy I mean, not the Jackie Chan reboot.”

Blaine thought back to the injuries Ralph Macchio's character had endured. “What if I don't want them to go away?”

“Then you can go back to Fight Club and get more. Or we can find something else physical for you to feel.” 

Sam's seductive smirk felt unreal, like the last few days hadn't happened. “Sam, about that-”

“Music!” his best friend interrupted. “How about some music?” Tunes emanated from Sam's phone as he placed it on the counter top before returning to Blaine's side. The gorgeous man knelt next to him, rested his arms on the wall of the bathtub. Bent his head towards him, was about to kiss him again when the doorbell rang. 

Swearing, his shirtless host glanced an apology at him before he left, taking the pile of clothes with him, forgetting to close the door behind him. 

 

After aborting the trip to Dalton, his father had stopped at the house just long enough for Cooper to jump into the passenger seat and get on the road to Lima. His mother, not wanting for Blaine to feel attacked or ambushed or something, stayed home to finish cleaning his bedroom. She threw a black and white striped long sleeve shirt at him, reminded him to take Blaine's phone and wallet (which he'd also left behind), and shooed him out the door.

At faster than the speed limit, the pair were a little more than halfway there when Cooper received another message from Sam. “He's got Blaine. He's taking him home.”

“Thank you, Jesus,” his father breathed. “Tell your mother.”

He typed out the message to Pam, eyebrows furled. “Uh, Dad? I'm pretty sure Sam means his home, not ours.”

“Then get Sam's address from Blaine's phone. We're going to get him.”

“Are you sure we shouldn't just turn around? We could ask Sam to bring him home when he's ready.”

“If we return without your brother, your mother will spice your dinner tonight with laxatives-”

“Fun.”

“-and I can expect something far more unpleasant.”

“Unpleasant like she'll cut holes in the crotches of all your suits? Shave your head in your sleep? Withhold sex?” Each suggestion amused Cooper as he imagined his father in each situation.

His father shook his head, rejecting the options with a shaky exhale. “Trust me on this one, Son. Women like your mother are far, far more creative. Pray that you never discover to what extent she'll go to protect you or your brother. Do you really think she stayed behind to straighten his childhood bedroom, in his childhood home, because she doesn't like the mess?”

He considered that for a moment. “It was his last sanctuary. If he came home to rubble, she's afraid of how he'd feel. She wants him to know that we'll help him fix everything.”

“Blaine must come home tonight. Besides, we have to retrieve that car.”

He pulled up Blaine's contact list and transcribed Sam's address into his map app. He also messaged his brother's best friend to let him know they were on the way, not noticing the lack of response during the remainder of the drive. When the apartment door opened, Cooper's eyebrows quirked at Sam Evans' shirtlessness.

“Mr. A? Coop?” Sam greeted mirthlessly. “I didn't realize you were coming.”

Cooper frowned as he greeted Sam with a pat on his shoulder. “I texted you. Did we... uh, interrupt something?” When Sam looked confusion at him, he gestured at the former-model's exposed nipples.

“Sorry, Blaine was half-naked when I found him so I gave him my shirt. I guess I've been so focused on him that I didn't see your message.”

His father extended a hand to the blonde, which Sam took. “It's good to see you again, Sam. I wish it were under different circumstances. Thank you so much for finding Blaine.”

Sam nodded. “He's in pretty bad shape.”

“We should get him to a hospital,” Cooper suggested.

“I didn't mean physically,” Sam clarified. “I mean yeah, he's bruised up but that'll heal. I've got him soaking in Mr. Miyagi's Miracle Mix.”

“I don't know what that is, and I think a medical professional should make that determination.”

“Coop, I'm telling you I've already checked him out, and I just finished taking CERT medical ops training. You know, to help first responders in a disaster situation? He doesn't have anything except bruises and scratches. Trust me, if I thought there were any possibility of something more serious, I would have brought him to the hospital myself.”

“He's not wrong, Cooper,” his father interjected. “I was a field medic when I served in the army, and I was examining Blaine when he punched me. I should have known better than to forbid him anything.”

“I heard about that. He's really sorry, Mr. A.”

Cooper's father cocked his head doubtfully. “Sam, I raised my sons to never apologize for standing up for themselves. Don't lie for him. He and I need to have a talk, but to be honest the part of me that wasn't gasping for air was... proud.”

“I'm confused.”

“It's between me and my son.”

“How long as he been seeing Spencer?”

“Since you brought him home. If we must talk about this now, may we come in? I'd like to see him.”

Sam spread his arms akimbo, and Cooper noticed that he looked like he was purposely trying to fill the doorway. “Now isn't a good time, Mr. A. I told you, he's in the tub.”

“Then we'll wait,” Cooper said, coming to his full height and standing shoulder to shoulder with his father, arms crossed so that his biceps bulged.

The blonde reached into a pocket, and handed him a set of keys. “I have an idea, why don't you guys get your car. It's at Woodlawn Cemetery.”

Cooper accepted the keys, but didn't break eye contact. “We've come a long way to see my brother, Sam.”

“They close the gates at sunset. If you can bring a flower vase, that'd be great. Blaine kinda broke one at Finn Hudson's plot. Oh, and he needs hair gel.”

“What's going on here, Sam?” his dad asked, not accustomed to being sent to run errands. Eyeing Sam with a look Cooper recognized, concentrating everything he was into his eyes. His father used this particular technique to intimidate and sway his business colleagues, especially those that were larger than he. “I know when I'm not wanted. The question is why?”

Sam was taken aback, but nevertheless stood his ground. “Because you're here to take Blaine from me. I will not allow you to do that.” 

“ _You_ will not _allow?_ ” Cooper asked incredulously. “We're not leaving here without him.”

Sam addressed him, but was locked in a staring contest with his father. “Sorry, C. You know I don't have any beef with you. Either of you. But the only way you're getting past me is over my dead body.”

“That can be arranged.” Cooper attempted to shoulder his way past Sam. He barely managed not to fall over the rail, off the stairs, when the blonde shoved him backward bodily. Sam continued to block the doorway, fortified, muscles swollen. Cooper was furious. How dare he? 

“You impudent dick, THAT'S MY BROTHER!” Cooper roared, a primal energy infusing him. He stalked towards Sam, prepared to retaliate by tearing him apart. The only thing that stopped him from grabbing Sam by his not-blonde hair and ripping it from his scalp was a firm hand placed on his chest.

“Cooper, stop. Sam, what is this? You know we didn't do this to him, right? We want to help.”

“He needs my help, not yours.”

 _Now you've asked for it,_ Cooper thought, watching his father roll up the sleeves of his shirt. Perhaps father and brother didn't relate easily to Blaine, but both men would cross the borders of Hell to save him. With their combined strength, nothing that dared stand between the Andersons would survive. 

“He's my son. Cooper's brother. Our _blood._ Who do you think you are?”

Sam physically grew larger with determination but his eyes changed, softened marginally. “Someone who loves him.”

To Cooper's surprise, his father smiled and relaxed into a more easy stance. “... You're a good man, Sam Evans.”

“Thank you, Mr. A.”

“Please, call me Todd.”

“Blaine's not leaving here without me.”

“Then come with us! He needs professional help, Sam. Pam and I, we know several good therapists. But I know my son, and I know he won't go if I ask it of him. I haven't yet done enough to convince him that I've accepted his homosexuality. He'll think it's a trap, that I'm taking the opportunity to try to make him straight.”

His father carefully took the step that separated them and grasped Sam by the shoulders. “When we had lunch the other day, you said your new job doesn't start for a couple weeks yet. Pack a bag, stay in our guest bedroom. You can stay as long as you want, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. You're right Sam. He needs you, and I'm not so foolish as to think I could come between you. But he needs us as much as we need him. We're his family, and you can't do this alone. Come with us.”

Sam hesitated. “Can I drive the car once?” Cooper couldn't blame him for trying to negotiate that one. Todd Anderson had never let his wife or sons behind the wheel of the restored muscle car that sat polished and pretty in their garage.

His dad compromised. “... You can _sit_ in it. We also need to get Blaine's car from New York. He can't keep stealing rental cars, or eventually the police will get involved. Cooper is heading back to California on Monday, and both Pam and I have work. I'll pay for your flight? I can't think of anyone else Blaine would want to take with him.”

“... Okay. Give me an hour. We'll be ready when you get back.”

“Thank you, Sam. Cooper, give him Blaine's stuff, and let's go.” Cooper waited until Sam had closed the door and he and his father were back in the car before he started arguing.

 

For the first few minutes Blaine assumed that one of the neighbors had come to voice their disappointment at Sam, abandoning their children for the second weekend in a row. Even in his current state, he wasn't blind to the judgmental assumption that had crossed their faces. They assumed he'd been brought back here for sex, that it was more important to Sam, why? Because Sam was half-naked and in a hurry to get him inside? Fuck them.

His brother's raised voice corrected his assumption. He couldn't make out any words through the open doors, but he knew what was happening. Cooper had arrived to take him home, whether he wanted to go or not. 

_I'm not going to cry._ No tears welled up in his eyes, but Blaine could feel the writhing pout warping his face. Exhaling heavily, he schooled his features and tried to focus on the song playing on Sam's phone.

[**Lift Me Up (The Afters)**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KBy2D8p5Kpw)

Waiting for the sunrise, waiting for the day  
Waiting for a sign that I'm where you want me to be  
You know my heart is heavy, and the hurt is deep  
But when I feel like giving up, you're reminding me  
That we all fall down sometimes, and when I hit the ground

You lift me up when I am weak  
Your arms wrap around me  
Your love catches me so I'm letting go  
You lift me up when I can't see  
Your heart's all that I need  
Your love carries me so I'm letting go

I know I'm not perfect, I know I make mistakes  
I know that I have let you down, but you love me the same  
And when I'm surrounded, and when I lose my way  
And when I'm crying out, and fallen down

You are here to lift me up when I am weak  
Your arms wrap around me  
Your love catches me so I'm letting go  
You lift me up when I can't see  
Your heart's all that I need  
Your love carries me so I'm letting go

There was no going back, no returning from everything that had happened. He wasn't daunted by apologizing to his father, or his mother's overbearing protection—which would likely become worse after today. He could even put up with his brother, knowing that his career on the other side of the country would shorten his stay. What was the point anyway? Whether he was in New York, Westerville, or Lima, he had nothing. The house only served to remind him that he was right back at Square One.

But then there was Sam, who _got_ him.

In the years they had been friends, Blaine had never before doubted whether or not Sam enjoyed his company. To the point where Sam had come to New York with him without any spectacular ambition. Likewise, Blaine enjoyed his. Kurt had made his jealousy of their friendship apparent, especially when they'd stayed up late reading Star Wars fanfiction. Aside from the three-hour marathon fight about Kurt's disgusting toothpaste habits, those nights were what upset Kurt the most. He'd throw it at Blaine like a weapon, saying that he liked Sam more than his own fiance. 

Which was, of course, ridiculous. Kurt was his soulmate—was being the operative word. He'd loved Kurt with all of his heart, had no regrets. Blaine's indiscretions during senior year of high school had caused their first breakup. He felt bad about causing such pain, but ultimately it had brought him and Sam together. And ever since then, every time Blaine needed anything, Sam was there. They had so much more in common, from video games to comic books to movies. So while Blaine was with Kurt and Sam was with Mercedes, it had never been challenging to sequester their bro time. 

And maybe, just maybe, he liked spending time with Sam... a bit more. There, he admitted it.

Blaine remembered how he had run from New York into Sam's arms, and how Sam had not once turned him away. He remembered the way Sam never let him sleep on the couch, had snuggled in bed with him, had almost succeeded in treating him like a normal person. And then there was the way Sam had found him at the cemetery, had looked at him like he was the most important thing, the only thing in the world. The way Sam's lips felt as they claimed his mouth. What did that mean? He had to be reading too much into it. Sam was straight. 

Still, it was nice to believe that someone cared about what happened to him. Even if it was all in his head. Even if they were just friends, Blaine couldn't take another step. Not without Sam.

When the water began to cool and stopped fizzing, Blaine noticed that no one had come barging into the bathroom to scoop him up and tie him down in a car trunk. He stood up and reached for a clean towel on the nearby rack. His eyes caught his reflection in the mirror, and he noted with some disappointment that, although the bruises weren't completely healed, a normal, pinkish color had returned to his flesh. He wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped onto a soft microfiber rug, then noticed through the doorway Sam sitting on his bed, still shirtless, deep in thought.

Clearing his throat, Blaine asked softly, “Do I need to wash this off?”

Sam noticed him and ran his eyes over Blaine's dripping chest. “Hey, look at that! It works. Uh, no I don't think so.”

The taller man pulled another towel out of... somewhere, strolled over, wrapped the towel behind his bare torso, and began tenderly drying his back in a way that felt both awkward and intimate. “S-sam? I can do it.”

“I know,” the blonde whispered. “Just, let me.” Emerald eyes glistened down at him and this time, there was nothing to stop their mouths from crashing into each other again. Instinct took over mere seconds before Sam kissed him. Blaine heard himself groan, feeling very, very naked as a tongue lightly grazed against his lower lip. 

Then, for the first time in what felt like forever, Blaine smiled. It didn't last long, deflating back to a sullen, flat expression at his next question. “Where's Cooper? I heard his voice.”

“They'll be back.”

“They?”

“Your dad, too. Come on, let's get you dressed.” Sam pointing to a pile on the bed consisting of his underwear and jeans, one of his striped shirts, his wallet, and his phone. His family must have brought them.

He wanted to ask Sam what was happening between them, but there was a more pressing problem. “They're taking me home, aren't they?”

“We have a little time.”

“I don't want to go back.”

“What if I came with you?”

Seriously, had Sam become telepathic? “... You'd do that for me?”

His friend pointed at the door to his bedroom, where Blaine hadn't noticed a bag that Sam had already packed. “I'd do anything for you, Blaine.”

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The names of Blaine's parents come from S6E4 (Todd Anderson, family free) and S6E8 (Pam Anderson, Gina Gershon's filmography).


	14. The Search is Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it has been so long since my last update! Real life, blah blah blah. It's time to get a few of the scenes that have been rolling through my head down on paper. If I haven't lost you, here's a little teaser of things to come.

When it came to any object in any room of her home she knew how many of what belonged where, down to the centimeter. Todd often teased her by moving a picture frame or rug an inch out of place just to see if she'd notice (which she always did) and then watch her writhe. He had tried to convince her for years to hire a cleaning service to help so that less of her free time was spent scrubbing the bathroom grout. She steadfastly opposed this suggestion, not out of concern that their belongings might go missing, but knowing that everything would likely be set down in the wrong spot! Call it a pet peeve, call it an OCD, whatever it was called, Pam Anderson was rather proud of it. 

Her son Blaine was the only person she knew as meticulous as she, almost—probably got it, in fact, from years of helping her as a child. Considerably more lenient in his organization, he was still more organized and aware of his living space than the average teenage boy should be. His room was never messy. One could always see the floor, never isolate a speck of dust; bed always made, desk always arranged; pictures always straight, books never out of order. Even his dirty laundry more often than not could be found in the shared bathroom between Blaine's and the guest bedroom, folded neatly and divided between colors and white in a hamper which lacked dividers.

Blaine's bedroom was almost as familiar to her as every other room in the house, excluding the man-cave her husband claimed as the garage. As she had done for Cooper's room when he moved out all those years ago, when Blaine moved to New York she had assumed the responsibility of dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, changing the sheets and pillowcases, and generally maintaining the room in a state that was ready for her sons should they come home to visit unannounced. Thus, the chaos of Blaine's bedroom didn't phase her for a microsecond; she knew where most things belonged. She made short work of it, assuming any object that she didn't recognize belonged either in the closet or a drawer and leaving it on his desk for him to put away himself.

Her extremely meticulous nature unfortunately neutralized a potentially useful outlet for her anxiety while waiting for her sons to come home. With the the sun lounging blithely indifferent on the horizon, Pam already had Blaine's favorite entree in the oven and was knuckling through a jigsaw puzzle laid out on the coffee table when she heard a car pull into the driveway.

“Finally,” she muttered, walking to Todd's whisky cabinet and pouring a glass of Dalmore to welcome him home. Pam knew her husband, too. Her eyebrows furled in confusion when the doorbell rang.

“Good evening, Mrs. Anderson.”

Pam saw the mirror reflection of her own hazel eyes sigh as she set the whisky down on a console table in the entryway. “Spencer! You're in danger of becoming a permanent fixture in my home.” The teen had visited every day for what now, four or five days?

“I could only be so lucky, ma'am.” The muscular teen stood courteously at the doorway, waiting to be invited inside. “Is Blaine ready?”

“I'm sorry, he's not here.”

“Would it be all right if I waited here for him? We have plans tonight.”

“Did you?” Pam now knew perfectly well what those plans involved. “To be honest, I'm not sure when he will be home. You see his brother is in town from California. They don't see each other very often.”

Spencer appeared genuinely surprised, if tangibly nervous. “My mistake. There must have been some miscommunication. I'll call him and re-schedule.”

 _We'll see._ Giving him her most sickly-sweet smile, she cheerfully gave him a, “Do come back soon,” as Spencer turned and began to walk back to his car. He was halfway there when two more cars pulled up to the house.

 _Lord, help me!_ She swore internally, exasperated. Trust her husband to have the worst timing. Only it wasn't her husband or sons who approached the house.

“Sam!” she heard Cooper call from one car as the tall, chestnut-blonde erupted out of the other and stalked across the grass lawn directly towards Spencer. There was no mistaking the urgent warning in her eldest son's voice.

“Oh hey, you're Sam right?” she heard Spencer try to say, oblivious to the events that had transpired during the day, right before his chin connected with Sam's uppercut. He toppled to the ground and Pam sprang towards them as quickly as she could. By the time she reached them Sam stood over Spencer, whose torso was elevated off the grass by his now-grass-stained t-shirt, fisted in Sam's hand.

“I'm going to make this very, very clear for you, Pizza Boy,” he stated as Pam reached them. “If you come near him again, if you touch him, if you so much as look at him, I WILL END YOU! Do you understand?”

“What the hell, man!”

“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”

“Sam, stop!” Blaine came running up behind them. With Cooper's help, he managed to drag Sam away. Spencer regained his footing and was within an inch of retaliating when her husband appeared to restrain him.

“Woah, hold on there, kiddo,” Todd grunted, but the teen fought to free himself from her husband's grasp.

Enraged, Pam could see the strain on her sons' faces from the effort it took both to hold Sam back. “Just stay away from him!”

“What did I do?” Spencer challenged. “He's my friend!”

“Oh, is that what you call it when you beat the crap outta someone? When you take him somewhere to watch others beat the crap outta him, repeatedly? He doesn't need 'friends' like you!”

“He _asked me_ to take him! It's not like I lured him there.”

Pam stepped between them, facing her son's best friend first. She placed her hands on his shoulders, captured his gaze with hers. “Enough!” 

“Mrs. A, he-”

“Sshhh,” she crooned, shaking her head with a quietening smile. “I know. It's okay.” Pam saw on Sam's face that they were on the same page as far as Blaine's future involvement with BARF, if either had anything to say about it. He didn't back down, but he did stop struggling against her sons. 

Turning to the other boy, “As you can see, it's been an emotionally charged day. We're not ourselves, and will make poor company. Please accept our apologies. Perhaps it might be best if you came back another time.”

“Perhaps it's best if you don't come back at all.”

“Perhaps that's up to Blaine!”

“I said enough!” The two quieted as Pam stepped back to glare at both simultaneously. Then she turned to her youngest son, who looked vastly improved from the battered, enraged tornado that had flown out of her house before. “I'm sure you'll be hearing from Blaine soon to confirm your plans one way or another. Won't he, Honey?”

Blaine took his cue. “I'll text you tomorrow, okay, Spence?”

Still breathing heavily, the muscled teen shook himself free of Todd, gave one last glower at Sam as he walked by (who returned it, eyeing him warily as he walked away). Spencer nodded the greeting he'd originally wanted to give Blaine as he made his way back to his car.

“Men!” Pam shrieked, exasperated. Turning from her family, she strode back into the house and downed the whisky she'd poured for her husband in a single swallow. Arms crossed and foot tapping loudly with impatience, she watched in silent indignation as Sam walked through the door carrying a bag and his guitar, his head averted to avoid eye contact. She didn't ask, mollifying herself temporarily as Blaine came in next and pressed his cheek against hers before following Sam inside. The joker, Cooper, asked what was for dinner cheerfully on his way past her.

When Todd graced her with his presence in the doorway, she handed her husband the empty glass and a perfunctory, acidic smile. “Your explanation,” she demanded.

 

“It's only for a week or two,” her worthless excuse for a soulmate said, watching as she paced the den. “His new job at McKinley starts soon. He won't want to make that commute from here. Besides, he rode home with us so he doesn't have his own transportation. I'm booking he and Blaine a flight to New York on Monday to pick up his car.”

“Have you lost your mind? You're sending Blaine _out of state_ like this?”

“That's another good reason for Sam to be here. I think he's the only person able to ground Blaine. We already know that neither you nor I can do it, and Cooper can't stay or he'll get fired and that will be the end of his acting career. Good God, how I wish I could ask Sam how he managed to both find Blaine and coax him back to his apartment.”

“I don't care that you invited Sam to stay here,” Pam clarified. “He's practically our third son.”

“I haven't even told you that part yet.”

She ignored the comment for now. “What you _are_ telling me is that he didn't come home by choice.”

“What was I supposed to do? You know as well as I that he needs therapy. We don't know anyone qualified in Lima, but we know plenty here that we trust. And if we had left him there you would have torn your hair out with worry.”

“You were _supposed_ to convince him that this is where he belongs. Remind him that we love him and that we're going to help him through this, no matter what it takes. Not tie him kicking and screaming in the trunk. We can't _force_ him to get better, Todd.”

“We didn't tie him in the trunk! I didn't need to push or convince him at all. He even hugged Cooper before getting into the car, all of his own volition. Doesn't that mean he chose it? Besides, you know he won't see a therapist if I'm the one that drives him there.”

“This again? I can't believe-”

Their argument was disrupted by a knock on the door as her eldest son poked his head around the door jamb. “Not that I want to interrupt the birth of Dad's new asshole, but when will dinner be ready? None of us have eaten all day.”

“Take it out of the oven and set it on top of the stove,” she instructed, as her husband simultaneously ordered, “Go apologize to Sam, Cooper.”

“What is he apologizing for?”

“Our son tried to force his way into Sam's home.”

“Go apologize to Sam, Cooper,” she echoed.

“I just finished doing that!”

“With, or without an Irish accent?” Todd asked. 

Her son retreated back to the kitchen, grumbling, and Pam stared at the ceiling. “This is exactly what I was talking about. Men. I'll be gray before I turn fifty. I swear, you three will be the death of me.”

She allowed her husband to guide her down onto the couch. “Pamela Rothschild Anderson, listen to me. Something is happening between Blaine and Sam.”

Her head suddenly began to ache, and she massaged her temples with her fingers. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

“You should have seen him, blocking both Cooper and I. He was intractable. He and Cooper are friends, and our eldest is not a small man, but Sam threw him off without any qualms. Then you saw what he did to Spencer just now. It took both our sons to pull him off! When have you ever known Sam to be violent?”

“He's a man. I'll never understand what goes through your heads.”

“Then listen carefully. Sam said that he loves Blaine.”

“So? He's been saying that for years. Every time he's come over I've heard him say it at least once. He says he loves Blaine almost as much as he says 'Dude, I'm hungry.' ”

“Yes yes, I know, I've heard it, too. This time it was different. It was more than what he said, it was how he proclaimed it. With conviction, like an announcement. He's determined to stand at Blaine's side, do anything to protect him, and he's ready to sacrifice himself in the process.”

“They're best friends.”

“Maybe you're right. I believe it's more than that.”

“And if it is? Don't you see that's even worse?”

“Why? You and I have both speculated on how much happier Blaine would have been if he'd gotten together with Sam instead of Kurt.”

“He is straight! Blaine told me that Sam dated every cheerleader at McKinley, plus Mercedes, and even did things with Tina. It really upset him at the time. Even if Sam, what, had some latent bisexual curiosity? And it's just now surfacing? It can't happen this way, Todd.”

“I don't understand. Sam is exactly what Blaine needs right now to feel human again.”

“Let's say Sam helps us to help Blaine get through this depression. Let's say Sam and Blaine do start dating. It won't last! Can't you see? Sam will be the rebound guy for him. And then he and Blaine will break up, and Blaine will be depressed again. Only this time he'll have lost his best friend, too. How is that better? They both deserve better than that.”

 

[ **The Search is Over (Survivor)** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZOnjglu2bpM)

How can I convince you what you see is real  
Who am I to blame you for doubting what you feel  
I was always reachin', you were just a girl I knew  
I took for granted the friend I have in you

Can we last forever, do we fall apart  
At times it's so confusing, the questions of the heart  
You followed me through changes and patiently you'd wait  
Till I came to my senses through some miracle of fate

I was living for a dream, loving for a moment  
Taking on the world, that was just my style  
Now I look into your eyes, I can see forever  
The search is over, you were with me all the while


	15. Dare You to Move

_Those first few months in New York had been the greatest experience of his life. Better than every show choir competition he'd ever won. Blaine Anderson really felt like he was finally independent. Well, except for the tuition his parents paid so that he didn't have to work and could focus on his education at NYADA. What he meant was that he'd taken ownership of his life, was self-accountable for adulting. His parents weren't there to make sure he ate breakfast, do his laundry and grocery shopping, pay the bills, clean the house, fix his car, or ingratiate him subtly into their network of friends of varying profession. This was his life, surrounded by the people whom he chose, building the career that he'd wanted since the first time he and Cooper performed together as children. He didn't know that only a matter of months later, it would all come crashing down around him. Perhaps it started here._

_He had let himself into Rachel and Kurt's Bushwick apartment using the extra key he'd been given upon first moving to New York. Blaine sat on the couch in their living room (if you could call it that, considering the loft was actually one enormous chamber with curtains to divide sections) with one of Rachel's magazines. He really only pretended to read it, occasionally sipping on a can of too-sweet Sprite, waiting—dreading—for his fiance to come home. They had to talk about what happened during combat class. Kurt had nearly sliced off his arm with a fencing foil. Blaine knew he'd deserved that, what with the aggravated and intense manner he'd attacked Kurt._

_In retrospect, he couldn't even convince himself that 'attacked' was the wrong word. It was obvious that something more was at stake during that fight than just his school grade. And no matter how hard he thought, he just didn't know if he could make Kurt understand. There were some things about Blaine that Sam intuited better than Kurt did. When his distractingly attractive fiance walked through the door of the apartment, wrapping up a phone conversation with his best friend Rachel Berry, he kind of wished Kurt would just walk behind the curtain of his 'bedroom' and ignore him for just a little while longer. He wasn't so lucky as that._

_“What happened in there?” he demanded. “You were really coming at me like, as if you had something to prove. What, I'm not sure.” Even without looking at him he could feel Kurt standing there, arms crossed, waiting for an answer._

_Unsure if he could look Kurt in the eye, Blaine continued to stare at the floor. “That I'm as strong as you are.”_

_“Okay but it's not a contest.”_

_That made Blaine turn to look at him, thinking_ Oh really _. “Isn't it, though, on some level? 'Cuz for the first time in my life I really feel like I'm... losing. I've felt that way ever since I got to New York. I feel like we're in this race together, and you are just_ so _much farther than I am. And it just feels like the whole balance has shifted.”_

_“What 'balance?' ”_

Here goes nothing. _“I guess it started when we first met and you came to Dalton because you were trying to get away from Karofsky, and I wanted to help you through that.”_

_“And you did.” Kurt sat down next to him, eyebrows pursed—whether from anger or confusion, Blaine couldn't tell._

“I loved _the way that felt. I loved that. I loved being able to protect you. But now I look at your life, and it's completely different. You're a star at school, you have all these cool new friends, you started this band. And I just... I feel like you don't need me anymore. To protect, or anything. I mean, you asked me to move out for God's sake.”_

_He got up and began to walk away, not sure he could take it if Kurt affirmed his greatest fear, or how he would explain to Finn (wherever he was) that-_

_“We made that decision together. So, is that what all this stuff is about that's going on? I mean, you trying to get me to eat more-”_

_“I don't like the way that I feel about myself anymore, Kurt, okay?!” Damn his fucking emotions, being all uncontrollable. He could feel it strangling in his chest, along with the strain of his voice around a lump in his throat. “And you have this, like, amazing new body. Do you wanna know why we haven't been intimate? It's because I feel_ insecure _around you. I feel insecure around my own fiance, and Frat Boi Physicals dot com isn't going to judge me!”_

 _“And neither will I._ Ever _.” Right, like the way he didn't when he'd discovered Blaine watched internet porn and irascibly stormed out without letting him defend himself, then ignored him until combat class. Blaine's head kept shaking, he couldn't make it stop._

 _Kurt continued. “But I am_ not _going to apologize for not being some delicate flower that needs his boyfriend to protect him. And you know what, maybe you're right. Maybe it is a contest. Maybe that's the way it has to be with two guys. But I would much rather be running this race with you, rather than against you.”_

_That was all he wanted. “Me too, I just-”_

__“As equals.” _Like the way he watched Blaine, arms crossed again, with judgment already pronounced on every part of his face._

_“I know, I know. I know that. I'm sorry. Just... I'm just so scared that you're gonna keep changing, and you're gonna keep getting stronger and one day you're gonna wake up and you're gonna realize 'I don't love him anymore.' ”_

_Facial features softened, and Blaine thanked God that Kurt finally seemed to understand, taking on a comforting demeanor. “Never! I'm always gonna love you. And I don't want you to be insecure or ashamed around me. Next time you're going through something like this, you have to be honest with me.”_

_Arms enveloped him belonging to the man he loved with his entire being. Tears of relief refused to be held back, running down Kurt's shoulder, taking with them the weight of Blaine's shame._

“So much for 'never,' ” Blaine mumbled to the shadows, throwing off his blankets and getting out of bed.

 

 **Asian Persuasion:** Wow, no wonder he hasn't been texting me back. My poor Blainey Days!  
**Blonde Chameleon:** dont worry, ive got him. thx again 4 ur help yestrday  
**Asian Persuasion:** I'm going to ask for Fri off to come home for the wknd. Summer interns get vacation days too, right?  
**Blonde Chameleon:** dont. 2 soon  
**Asian Persuasion:** Don't be a blame whore.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** ?  
**Asian Persuasion:** Autocorrect. Blaine hog.  
**Asian Persuasion:** He's my best friend, too, you know.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** trust me, AP.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** just stay put n tell us moar kRaZy RI shenanigans.  
**Asian Persuasion:** >=[  
**Blonde Chameleon:** srsly. ill ask him to skype u.  
**Asian Persuasion:** No deal. I'm asking my boss tmw.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** isnt it like ur 10 1/2 wk anniv w/ the boston accent or sumthin?  
**Asian Persuasion:** No, he and I broke up after finals.  
**Asian Persuasion:** I found him passed out covered in human feces.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** … wtf?  
**Asian Persuasion:** Long story. I'll tell you about it *when I arrive*  
**Blonde Chameleon:** let me talk to B b4 u ask ur boss. k?  
**Asian Persuasion:** If I don't hear from you by lunch (my time), I'm asking.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** same time zone, AP. y do i always remind u?  
**Asian Persuasion:** …  
**Asian Persuasion:** Shut up!  
**Asian Persuasion:** That's why!  
**Blonde Chameleon:** lol

Sam tucked his iPhone back into his armband for the last few blocks of his jog. The air in Westerville was no less brisk than Lima however, the morning jog in the neighborhood around the Anderson residence felt completely different than that surrounding his Richelieu apartment. It was all two-story houses with nice cars and trimmed trees amid flower arrangements in huge yards, with an unexpectedly gorgeous view of the Hoover Reservoir, and the occasional middle aged couple walking obedient dogs. It was so suburban. Some day, when Mercedes Jones came back to him and he was ready to marry her, he wanted to raise a family with her in a place just like this. You know, assuming she was ready to lose her virginity to him. 

A part of him was still in love with her. They had dated briefly in high school, some called it a summer fling. His attempts to rekindle their relationship before she graduated hadn't worked as well as he'd liked. But when she moved to New York, he and Blaine had moved in with her and escaped the Bushwick apartment. Officially he and Blaine shared the second bedroom, but he'd spent more nights than not in her bed. The only thing their relationship had lacked was sex. Sam supposed that if he'd been a virgin, too, the commitment he'd made to wait for her to be ready might have been easier to accommodate. But he was no stranger to physical pleasures. They'd broken up when she decided that she couldn't let him torment himself for her, lest he grow to resent her. It had been the most difficult breakup of all his girlfriends, yet still nothing compared to what Blaine endured now.

Sam wasn't sure how much longer he could go without sex. Especially not after he'd bumped into Mrs. A in her silk night robe, walking down the stairs at the same time as he, presumably getting ready to start breakfast. Oblivious to his noticing how the fabric hung on her features, she'd smiled affectionately at him without a word, with those hazel eyes which looked just like Blaine's, as he was on his way out the door.

Assuming everyone else was probably still asleep, Sam slipped off his tank top and allowed the cool air to dry the sweat from his skin as he walked back up to the house. He fully intended to sneak back up to the guest bedroom without Pam seeing him, although he also wouldn't have minded if she saw and commented on his physique again. Unfortunately, no one was still asleep; they were all awake. Well, that's what he got for assuming.

Blaine's father sat in silk pajamas which matched his wife's robe on one end of the sectional sofa in his living room, feet propped up on an ottoman, reading the Sunday newspaper—an actual printed copy, who does that anymore? On the other end Cooper sat lounging on the chaise, watching the news on one of the two expensive televisions in the house. And Mrs. A stood in the archway leading to the kitchen, watching something intently. At the sound of the front door shutting, the two men raised one heavy arm each (Cooper not bothering to look away from the TV) and waved a sleepy greeting in Sam's general direction. Pam turned and, seeming not to notice his shirtless sweatiness, flowed majestically toward him.

“He's cooking,” she whispered furtively.

“Who?” he whispered back, not at all furtively.

Pam rolled her eyes, turned her head, and projected her voice at the kitchen. “Could you please explain to me why the orange-zested rosemary baked eggs I have in the oven aren't good enough for breakfast? I really like my new set of ramekins and-”

“Sam likes egg whites!” Blaine called back emphatically, and that was the end of that. Pam gestured at Sam with both hands insistently in the direction of her son's voice. He took the hint, and made his way for the kitchen. She was right. 

Blaine was cooking. 

Rather frantically, he might add.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Sam sang. “I'm starving. What's for breakfast?”

“I'm making you an egg white and avocado scramble.” Blaine didn't react as Sam slid up behind him to look over his shoulder.

“And apparently... uhm, what are these?” he asked, examining a plate of fruit covered somethings.

“Lemon blueberry cheese blintzes.”

“Wow. Thanks, bromo, but you shouldn't have gone to all this trouble.”

“Sunday is your any and all leftovers day. You want to eat Mom and Dad's leftovers?”

“You're gonna help me eat some of this, though, right?”

“There are bagels in the cupboard and organic butter in the fridge.”

“Sounds good... You're gonna eat some of this, right?”

“I can make bacon, too. Or-”

“Blaine,” he interrupted, moving to stand beside the brunette at the stove, placing a hand gently on the forearm with the spatula, catching Blaine's eyes. “Please?”

The shorter man stopped for a moment, did not hide his appraisal of Sam's naked torso, before continuing his task. “Maybe after you've showered.”

“Thank you. I think your mom would be offended if I didn't have room left to try her baked eggs.”

“Smart boy!” sounded Mrs. A's voice from the living room. Sam laughed.

Blaine smiled—a genuine smile, gleaming endearingly—before stating, “You stink.”

“You like my stink.”

“Too much info!” This time it was Cooper's voice calling.

“Damn, what is there like a baby monitor in here or something?” Sam flashed Blaine a grin and gave him a pat on the shoulder before heading back upstairs. Hot water ran over him as he quickly cleaned himself, trying not to think about Brittany's legs or Mercedes' breasts, Santana's ass or Tina's legs, Blaine's eyes or Quinn's legs or- Fuck, what the hell was _that_?

He came back dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt to find Blaine and his mother arguing over the cloth napkins which should be used at the table with breakfast. His friend was pushing for the green set, of which they only owned four. Meanwhile, Pam was adamant that they use purple since they owned enough for everyone to use the same color. Mr. A insisted that it didn't matter (“It's just breakfast, and it's not like Sam is a guest in our house.”) as Sam grabbed his guitar from the living room and fled quickly into the backyard. 

“Whatcha doin'?” Cooper asked, following him.

“Oh, I'm in the habit of jamming for a bit after my morning run and shower. Do you think anyone would mind?”

“I would, if you don't let me join you.”

Sam grinned. If this was Cooper's way of showing they were cool after the heated events of the previous day, it was completely unnecessary. He'd hadn't needed the first apology to begin with, and the second was just over the top. He held no grudge against Cooper whatsoever, who had only been trying to reach his brother. “Yeah, man. Sing along if you know it.”

[**Dare You to Move (Switchfoot)**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPS2_lbUixE)  


Welcome to the planet  
Welcome to existence  
Everyone's here  
Everybody's watching you now  
Everybody waits for you now  
What happens next

Welcome to the fallout  
Welcome to resistance  
The tension is here  
Between who you are and who you could be  
Between how it is and how it should be

Maybe redemption has stories to tell  
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell  
Where can you run to escape from yourself?  
Where you gonna go?  
Salvation is here

I dare you to move  
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor  
I dare you to move  
Like today never happened  
Today never happened before

“How do you do that?” Cooper asked as the song ended.

“The guitar? It's like, so there are these strings right, and if you hold them-”

“I know how a guitar works, thank you. I meant _that._ ” 

When the older man nodded toward the kitchen window, Sam saw that their duet had held Blaine's attention long enough for his mother to set the purple napkins on the table and declare victory in her inimitable refined manner. Realizing he'd been caught, Blaine turned, surrendered the Great Napkin War of 2014 to his parent, and began to set the silverware.

“He was like, freaking out or something this morning. Came out of his room and just started cooking and wouldn't say more than four words to us: 'Sam likes egg whites.' And then you walked in, and he's... well he's almost... my brother again.”

“I dunno.”

“Don't be coy with me, Sam.”

The not-blonde turned to make sure none of Cooper's relatives were watching, and then pulled him to stand further away from the kitchen window. He didn't want Blaine or his parents to hear. “It's just, I get him. It has something to do with touching him. When he can't stop feeling whatever it is that he's feeling, physical contact triggers something else. Like when I hug him, or when I grabbed his arm in the kitchen just now.”

He made a conscious effort to say 'hug' and not 'kiss.' That wasn't a conversation he was ready to have, at least not until he was sure himself what it was.

Cooper considered what he'd said, and thought back to his arrival at the house yesterday. “He didn't want me to touch him. When I grabbed his head between my hands and made him look at me, that was when he bolted.”

“And it's why he started going to Fight Club again. That was his outlet, his therapy. It was the only way he knew how to deal with it. Make the pain go away by replacing it with a different kind of pain. But, I don't think it does what he thought it would. Like, maybe it needs to be with someone he cares deeply about. Like me.”

“Or me. But not Mom or Dad? This has gotta be some kinda new psychological condition.”

“I have no idea. All I know is that I'll do whatever Blaine needs me to do for him to get better.”

“Are you sure about that, Evans? You might not be ready for what you're getting yourself into. You might understand him, but that's a far cry from being able to help him. Don't make commitments you can't keep.”

Sam looked directly at Blaine's brother and forgot to think about what he was about to say. “I love him, Coop. I know exactly what that means to me, I just don't know where it's going yet.” 

He could feel Cooper's eyes on him as he returned to the kitchen. With breakfast finally served, Sam took his normal seat next to Blaine at the Andersons' dinner table, Mr. A setting a mimosa before him. When Cooper joined them, the casual conversation felt both remarkably normal and distressingly out of place. 

Cooper told them about the movie he was filming, and how the director was this super-connected dickhead in Hollywood, who threatened his entire acting career if he didn't fly back to California tomorrow. Mrs. A reminded Blaine to submit his application to Dalton Academy for the Warblers graduate adviser position. Todd informed Blaine and Sam that he'd booked them flights to pick up the Green Whale from New York, which departed close to the same time as Cooper's so that he could drive them to the airport. Sam mentioned that Tina might be coming home to visit this weekend, and suggested that he Skype her.

Blaine remained quiet during most of this, holding a subtle glint in his eye that looked almost content, while Sam allowed his best friend to rest a bare foot timidly light atop his beneath the table.

It was Cooper who broke the fantasy, halting Mrs. A when she stood to collect and wash her precious ramekins. “Okay, I really think we need to have a family meeting before I have to leave. Sam, would you excuse us?”

Mr. A stopped him from standing to wash his plate. “Sam, I'd appreciate if you would stay.”

“Are you sure? Because, really, I'm not offen-”

“Cooper called this a 'family' meeting, so there's no reason for you to leave. Pam?” Blaine's mother nodded with a warning glance to mitigate any objection from her eldest, and took the plate from Sam's hands before resuming her seat at the table.

“Fine,” Cooper surrendered, before turning to his brother. The content look Sam had seen before was gone. “Listen, Blainers. I don't think any of us has really talked about what happened yesterday. We want you to know that we love you, no matter what.”

Blaine nodded, staring at his fork. Remembering how he had jabbed a fork into a man's hand during a burst of rage, Sam decided it best if he collected all the silverware on the table and placed them in the sink. “I know that, Coop.”

“We're worried about you, buddy. We want to help, we just don't know how.”

“We want you to consider counseling,” Pam said, taking hold of her husband's hand. 

His best friend narrowed a glare towards his father. “Did you put them up to this?” Sam tried to reach for his hand under the table, but Blaine evaded.

“No, Son, I didn't.”

“I'm not seeing some behavioral correction 'counselor' who will convince me to date girls. I told you, just because things didn't work out with Kurt doesn't mean-”

Pam offered, “We bumped into Jerry Hayward the other night at dinner. You remember Jerry, right? You've known Jerry since you were what, five years old?”

“Who's Jerry?” Sam asked.

“A family friend. We used to take Cooper and Blaine to parties at their house, before they moved for his wife's career. He's a psychotherapist.”

“His wife makes The Best Chocolate Mousse Pie,” Cooper said, earning him an offended frown from his mother.

“They've recently moved back in town. They have a daughter, Jane.”

“And let me guess, Jane is single.”

Mr. A shook his head. “I have no idea whether she is or not. Jane is a few years younger than you, and no, I am not trying to set you up on a date, Blaine. I promise.”

“Then why did you mention her?” Sam saw Mr. A holding back his frustration. It really seemed like nothing he said would appease Blaine's accusation. 

So, Pam intervened. “Blaine, this is not some stranger whom you don't trust. You know Jerry. He used to give you piggy back rides and throw you in the pool.”

Then Cooper. “He used to greet you at the door, 'Big Blaaaaine! You wanna box, Big Blaine?' ” The actor put his fists up and did an impression which was surely as accurate as talent enabled.

Finally, Todd. “And sing with you on their karaoke machine. You remember, it was that Pointer Sisters song wasn't it?”

“It was Tina Turner.”

“You don't honestly think that Jerry would try to change you, do you? Even if it were something which I asked him to do, which I wouldn't ever.”

Reluctantly, Blaine shook his head.

“Can you please think about it, Honey? We know that you're hurting, and that you don't know how to stop hurting. How about we make a deal. If you want to go back to Fight Club, your father and I won't try to stop you. And neither will Sam.” 

The four men's jaws fell. 

“But, only if you sit down and talk with Jerry over lunch before you decide one way or the other.”

The suspicious gaze shifted from his father to his mother. “And if I decide that I don't want Jerry, and that I'd rather go back to BARF?”

“Then your father and I will sign you up for a more comprehensive health insurance policy.”

“Pam, what are you doing?”

“Showing our son, the adult, that he has the right to make his own decisions. And that as his parents, we will support him even if we don't agree with those decisions. Won't we?”

Todd was about to protest when Sam saw him see something in his wife's hazel eyes. The protest died on his lips, pressed against her cheek, and he turned back to his youngest son. “Do we have a deal?”

A moment of contemplation, then a second set of hazel eyes turned to face Sam. He could see the indecision, the confusion, and the trust that Blaine placed in him. “What do you think I should do?”

“I can't tell you what to do, B. I hope you at least give this Jerry a chance. I'll go with you, if you want me to. You know, for moral support or whatever. But if you decide that you just want to fight, then I'm going with you to Fight Club, too.”

When Sam took his hand this time, Blaine didn't object.


	16. One Last Time

It began with Girl Scout cookies.

Technically their social circles had overlapped during his last two years of high school, when he transferred to McKinley and joined its glee club to spend more time with Kurt. They'd both served on the student council during senior year. Despite having spent so much time in each others' company, Blaine hadn't developed a real friendship with Tina Cohen-Chang until the last semester of high school.

The year 2012 saw the New Directions win their first national show choir competition. Getting disbanded months later at Thanksgiving—disqualified for leaving the performance stage during Sectionals (Marley had collapsed from malnutrition)—hadn't made Christmas any less eventful. Sam and Brittany fake-married and fake-divorced for an end of the world which never came. Jake Puckerman re-connected with his half-brother Noah, who took him on a brief vacation to Los Angeles. And Burt Hummel, diagnosed with prostate cancer, flew Blaine with him to visit Kurt in New York with hopes of rebuilding their relationship after the two had broken up that fall. 

Temporarily joining the Cheerios with fellow disbanded-New Directions “New Rachel” Blaine, gazing at him with longing adoration during both school council meetings and his Secret Society of Superheroes Club, he'd considered Tina a friend but not really a close one. But then January of 2013 slithered into the timeline, and with it came impending doom: Girl Scout cookie season.

Blaine wasn't particularly big on cookies. Brownies, ice cream, pastries, sure, but cookies were just “meh.” If he really needed a sweet snack, and cookies were the only thing available, he wouldn't turn them down. But he never went out of his way to seek out cookies with the exception of Thin Mints, also known as Nightbird's kryptonite. With what he considered supernatural restraint, Blaine never purchased more than one box a year. He'd take half the package and eat it when/as he pleased, hoarding the other half in the back of his freezer to meter out over a few months. Each bite of crisp chocolatey mint goodness tasted of the promise of spring blossoming, of the naive innocence of youth, of a newfound glory yearning to be.

Sam didn't share this cookie passion. The athletic blonde football player and his abs were convinced Thin Mints would ultimately contribute to the zombie apocalypse.

January of 2013, Tina and Blaine sat down for lunch one day and bonded over their shared love of Thin Mints. January of 2013, Tina and Blaine resolved to share but a single box of Thin Mints between them when cookie season began, to help each other stay on track for their respective weight goals and remain competitively agile should they be called for Cheerios duty. February of 2013, Tina Cohen-Chang showed up to student council with four boxes of cookies to share with their fellow council members. They collapsed together against the wall, all hearty laughs and knowing smiles, stacking her four boxes atop the three boxes he'd brought for the same purpose. From that point on he, Sam, and Tina were a trio, even if one corner of their triangle lived in Providence, Rhode Island.

A digital likeness of that knowing smile manifested on his laptop screen, pivoted by a sympathetic head-tilt. “Hey, Boo.”

“Hi, Tey Tey.”

“How ya holdin' up?” she asked, head-tilt sustained.

“Oh, you know. Okay, I guess.”

“ 'Okay' like 'I've accepted the major life changes I've had to endure recently' okay, or 'okay' like 'I wonder how much Sam has told her' okay?”

“Remind me not to ask for your helping ripping off any band-aids any time soon.”

“Well, which is it?” The edge he heard in her voice may or may not actually have been there.

“That depends on how much Sam actually told you, I guess.”

“He told me you and Kurt broke up months ago, and that you moved back to Westerville a few days ago, and that things have been a little rough.”

“And that's it?”

“He also mentioned an uncomfortable dinner with Ryder and Jake, something about you getting into a fight with your parents and stealing a car. You know Sam, I figure he was exaggerating.”

“... And, that's it?” 

“No, he also said that he's staying with you but you've been antisocial. Be thankful that he did, or I would be more upset right now about all the unanswered texts I've sent you the last few days.”

Blaine smiled, grateful that Sam hadn't told her about the stranger he'd beaten, or his bruises, or Fight Club. But what he really wanted to know is if Sam told her about the kiss. Two kisses, plural. “And... that's it?” he repeated.

“Don't you know any other words? I tried to get more out of him, but the last he said on the subject was 'I've said too much, it's his business.' So, I'm coming home this weekend to offer cuddles with your fruit fly. Assuming my boss will let me take Friday off.” 

“Tina, can I tell you something? I just, I'm a little confused and I need someone to talk to.” 

“Of course, Blainey Days. You know you can tell me anything.”

“Sam kissed me.”

“WHAT?!” Her face contorted right before she disappeared from his screen, voice heard in the background as a nonsensical string of muffled frustration. When she reappeared, “Where is he? Get him in here!”

“Tina, hold on a second. I'm just so-”

“NOW!!” Blaine acquiesced and excused himself, leaving Tina fuming. All that he'd wanted to do was ask Tina for her advice, and he honestly had no idea why she was so pissed off. But he knew how single-minded she was when upset. If he and Sam didn't diffuse Tina's anger now, she was just going to badger them both until she was red in the face. This really wasn't how he wanted the conversation with Sam to go. 

Knocking on the door to the guest bedroom next to his, Blaine wished he'd waited for Sam's verbal permission before entering. The not-blonde lay on the bed, massive cock pointing at the ceiling through the zipper of his jeans, pumping it furiously with both hands, eyes closed in bliss, and a box of tissue paper within arm's reach.

“Sam? Tina is- oh Jesus!”

The sound of slapping skin halted. “In or out, dude,” Sam said, his voice husky.

Blaine quickly stepped into the room and closed the door, hiding his face against it so as not to stare and blocking the door should any of his relatives wonder if anything was amiss. “You should have locked the door.”

“It doesn't have a lock.”

“... Uh...”

“No offense, bro, but I'm kinda losing altitude here. What's up?”

 _You are, it seems._

“If you're not gonna talk, either give me a few minutes or come over here and help me.”

 _Oh, Jesus_... On the back of his eyelids, the imprint of Sam's dick throbbed.

“Uh... Skype. Tina. Help?” How he even managed to articulate any words at this point, he wasn't sure. He heard his friend sigh discontented, the _sproing_ of the bed springs as he bounced off the mattress. A soft grunt and a zipper being pulled later, he felt Sam's hand on his shoulder.

Turning, Blaine couldn't help but look down to confirm whether or not Sam was still exposed. Alas he was not, but the bulge in his jeans would not be hidden. “Maybe try the bathroom next time. What if it had been my mom?”

Sam smirked, and Blaine didn't want to know why. “Man, cut it out! Can we please deal with this real quick?”

“Your reputation isn't the only thing that precedes you into a room.” Blaine wasn't sure which character his friend impersonated this time. One of Sam's hands appeared before his face, pointing a finger down between them, where an object in Blaine's sweats requested freedom. 

“What exactly are we doing on Skype now?” Sam asked, eyebrows quirked suggestively.

“Ugh, no! Damnit, just come on.” He made an effort to cover himself, checking the hallway to make sure no one was around, as he led Sam back into his bedroom.

“Hey look it's Tiiiiina!” Sam greeted, kneeling on the floor next to Blaine's chair so that she could see both of them. “What a-”

When she exploded, Blaine turned down the volume of his laptop just in case anyone decided to eavesdrop on the other side of his door. “Sam Evans, is that why you didn't want me to come home this weekend?! How dare you!”

“No, Tina, you've got it all wrong!”

“And you, Blaine Devon Anderson, after the lecture you gave me and Sam when he kissed me before?” He remembered well the outburst he'd thrown at them, having caught the two making out during their senior year at McKinley. He hadn't admitted to anyone except (reluctantly) his mother (whose intuition was sometimes annoyingly accurate) what role his residual romantic feelings and sexual desire for Sam played in that situation. He'd been engaged to Kurt, in love with Kurt, and his mother warned him what curiosity unsated could do. Once he knew what it was he was able to control it. He'd thought it all but forgotten, until recently.

“Well don't come crying to me when your safety stock of Thin Mints runs out! Shame!” Lips pursed, she made an inappropriate gesture with her fingers.

“Will you please calm down and let me-”

“I will _NOT_ calm down!” Sam took the initiative to mute Blaine's speakers and microphone as Tina became more shrill and the true rampage began.

“What are we going to tell her?”

“You're asking me?”

“Wait, I have an idea. Follow my lead.” He and Sam shared a brief look. A spark traveled up every nerve in his body when Sam bumped his knee with an affable elbow. When Tina finally finished and sat there, arms crossed and waiting with an evil eye for the pair to answer a question that neither heard, Sam unmuted Blaine's computer. “Hey, tell me again how your boyfriend ended up covered in human feces?”

Blaine covered his mouth to hide the curve of his lips.

“Ex-boyfriend!” she clarified.

“He was a real shit head, eh?”

“Not fair, Sam!” They watched her arm reach to shut off her webcam.

“Tina, wait!” Blaine pleaded, and their friend crossed her arms again and waited. “Look, I don't know why Sam kissed me. He and I haven't had a chance to talk about it yet. As soon as we do, I'll fill you in on all the details, okay?”

“You will?” Sam guffawed incredulously.

“We are _not_ trying to shut you out of the trio. We're still bff's, all three of us. I promise, as soon as we know what this is, we'll tell you.”

“Yeah? Like the way you told me you and Kurt broke up again so immediately?”

“Tina, if I can convince Blaine to promise to kiss you the next time we see you, will you drop this and let us talk it out before you give yourself an aneurysm?”

He punched his best friend in the shoulder. “Sam, what the hell?”

“It'll complete the triangle! I've kissed her, I've kissed you. The only thing left is for you to kiss her. Come on, bro. Take one for the team.”

“You've got a deal. I'll see you this weekend,” Tina said, satisfied with the arrangement. And then she signed off.

He flipped his laptop closed and stood up to bear down on his kneeling friend. “What was that?”

Sam got to his feet, looming over Blaine at his full height. “You told her?”

“Well, you and I weren't talking about it! I needed to ask someone for advice. Only, I never got the chance because she got upset.”

“Of course she got upset. Did you forget that she had a huge crush on you in high school?”

“That was so long ago. I kind of thought it passed, especially because of the whole me being gay thing.”

“The way it passed for you with me?”

This _really_ wasn't how he wanted this conversation with Sam to go, Blaine thought as he collapsed onto the bed. “Get out, Sam.”

“Well, did it?”

“I said get out, Sam.”

His best friend paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Do you think she'll tell anyone?”

Something in Blaine's head ticked, and he could swear the room became a little darker as his stare narrowed on the not-blonde. “Why? Are you ashamed? Is that what you want me to be? Your little secret?” 

Kurt treated him that way during that last month in New York, after they'd broken up but before he'd moved back to Ohio. They'd barely spoke, because Kurt was almost never home. When they did speak, they fought. From little bits that he'd picked up during those fights, Blaine inferred that among his new group of friends (whom Blaine was never allowed to join) Kurt referred to him not as his ex-fiance, his first love, high school sweetheart and former love-of-his-life, but as his unreasonable, free-loading roommate who hated his toothpaste-crusted towels.

“Blaine-”

“Get out, Sam.” Not just darker now, maybe a little red, especially where his eyes focused on an object on his nightstand—a picture of Kurt, re-framed by his mother yesterday while cleaning the disaster he'd created in this very room. 

“Blaine?” The bed dipped as the other sat down next to him. “I'm sorry.”

“Whatever. Apology accepted.”

“No, apology not accepted. Look, I'm sorry if I made you feel that way. You're not a secret. You are my best friend, you know that. You _know_ that. I just- I wanted us to talk before everyone else started to talk, you know what I mean?”

Blaine remembered how quickly the gossip train worked, especially on social media, and especially among former members of the New Directions—like after he'd updated his relationship status on Facebook. Tina was his best friend, and even after accepting the deal Sam had cut Blaine still wasn't sure whether or not she'd keep her mouth shut. It was highly possible that she'd tell Artie, their last remaining friend left in New York, who might tell Kurt.

“So, talk, then.”

“... I don't know what to say.”

“Get out, Sam,” he ordered for the fourth time, tired of saying it. To his surprise, hands took hold of his face. Strong, gentle, caressing hands, which lifted until he gazed into tender green eyes that lit the darkness, held him more effectively than did the hands.

“I don't know what to say, _yet_. I swear, I'm not trying to mess with your head. I just have some stuff I need to figure out and these last two days I haven't been able to stop and think. I've been a little busy?”

A little busy taking care of him. Sam hadn't left his side since finding him at Woodlawn Cemetery. He'd kept his promise. “Yeah, I know.”

Not-Blonde Chameleon bared his teeth affectionately. “Thin Mints? Really, buddy?”

“Don't judge.”

“I'm sorry, I was trying to be funny.”

“I'm not kissing Tina.” He would rather heat a pot of diarrhea to the temperature of molten lava, then drip it slowly into his eye.

“I know, but it shut her up, didn't it? If you can give me just a little time, I'd really appreciate it. But B, listen. If I'm making things worse, if I'm hurting you, if you just can't take it, tell me okay? I will put all of my stupid into a locked box and throw it into Lake Michigan.”

“You're not stupid.”

“You know what I mean. I know it's not fair, but if you can give me a day or two, I'd owe you the solidest solid ever. Until then, all I ask is that you don't run away from me. I'm not running away from you.”

[ **One Last Time (Midtown)** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_S1jUPjrtc)

I'm lost without your sight  
I can't think without your mind  
There's comfort in the night  
When I wake up by your side  
I'm up here on my own  
With nothing left to loose  
I won't deny you anything  
There's nothing I'll refuse

You're not looking  
I'm still watching you  
Can we forget those times  
Can we move on

Please say that you  
Can feel the same way that I do  
Please say that I  
Can be forgiven one last time

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Sam woke on Monday morning, he changed his clothes, pulled open the bedroom door as quietly as he dared, and stepped into the hallway. However, instead of heading straight for the front door, he checked and found Blaine's door unlocked. He sneaked in with the half-hearted intention of waking his friend, to see if he wanted to join the run today. Since returning to Ohio he'd told Blaine at least twice that he'd either work out or train with him. Sam figured he should start making good on that. Sleeping-Blaine looked so at peace for a change that he couldn't bring himself to do more than tug at a stray curl on his forehead. Mrs. A caught him coming out of Blaine's bedroom, and didn't say a word about it.

Two hours later, after Sam's morning jog and shower and chowing on oatmeal and egg white omelets (made once again by Blaine), Cooper said his farewells to his parents. His mother stood in the doorway, saying, “Your room is always waiting for you” at him, watching with hands clasped before her breast as Sam and Blaine piled into the rental car with him, heading for Hertz at the Columbus airport. There they returned the vehicle and hopped onto a shuttle which took them to the departing flights terminal.

“I miss you, Squirt,” Coop said, taking his younger sibling by the shoulders. “Listen, if you need anything, give me a ring alright? I mean it. And Sam, donat porgit tutek karruf yursilf walyur tekkink karruf im, eh?” It might have been touching, were it not for the bad attempt at a Russian accent. Abruptly Sam found himself pulled into a hug. Then, just like that, Cooper stepped into his flight's gate and was gone.

Their flight to New York took off from a different gate shortly thereafter. Sam wasn't a stranger to airplanes by any means, having flown to a few different locations for their show choir competitions, such as Nationals in LA. That didn't make him any less nervous as he boarded the plane. Humans flying this fast and so high above the ground was a feat of engineering which Sam didn't comprehend (unlike most earthbound vehicles), and therefore considered it on par with magic. He started to wish he'd asked Mr. A for a train ticket, instead.

Of course, seated next to him, Blaine noticed his restless discomfort. “You know you didn't have to come with me.”

“Don't start that again.” Although the flight attendant had already advised all passengers to temporarily stow their phones for the takeoff, Sam took a quick selfie of the two of them and tagged it Things I Do For This Guy, his face drawn into an obviously reluctant grin.

Blaine placed a hand on his knee to calm its uncontrollable bouncing. And then his head hit the back of his seat, skin stretching, pressure building in his ears, throat falling into his stomach as the plane accelerated and became airborne. The grip of Blaine's hand tightened, a reassuring reminder of his presence while the plane climbed, and climbed, and climbed...

“I hate this part,” Sam moaned, closing his eyes. Thank goodness they were driving back to Ohio. Eventually the plane leveled off, and the flight attendant brought them both drinks. “So, did you decide about the Jerry thing?”

“I'm still not sure.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yeah, maybe. Not here, though.” 

“Okay. Just know that I meant what I said. If it would make you feel better about it, I'll go with you.”

Blaine nodded appreciation and turned to look out the window at the field of clouds beneath them. But before his friend became lost to his thoughts, Sam began repeatedly poking his shoulder. 

“Hey, nuh uh. Whatcha thinkin about?” The brunette sighed, setting his drink down on the nearby tray table, but wasn't particularly forthcoming. “You okay?”

Blaine sighed heavily. “Yeah. I just wish we weren't going to New York right now.”

“We're only there to pick up Gee Dubs. In and out as fast or slow as you want.” Sam didn't realize that sounded vaguely sexual until Blaine's cheeks blushed. 

He hadn't lied. He wasn't trying to mess with Blaine's head, or lead him on. He just didn't know what was happening. On the one hand, he was still attracted to women with their curves and legs and boobs and everything that came with them. On the other, he kept seeing Blaine's eyes. Everywhere. And his lips and skin were so soft...

“Sam, I'm glad you're with me.” But Blaine's voice was airier (is that a word?) than normal and there was something about the way he was looking at him-

“Was that an impression? Wait, uh... Elijah Wood, at the end of Fellowship. Ladies and gentlemen, Blaine Anderson did an impression-!”

“You're stupid,” Bucky giggled affectionately.

“-and a pretty darn good one, too!”

A non-stop flight from Columbus to JFK International lasted only a couple hours. Rather than talking about the things they needed to talk about, the two friends spent much of the time with their phones connected by Bluetooth, sharing music files back and forth. Blaine was searching for something that he'd heard on Sam's iPhone the other day, when he'd soaked in Sam's tub in whatever that mixture was which started the healing process for his bruises. But Sam's mp3s were too numerous, and what Blaine could remember of the lyrics didn't help Sam to identify a specific song. So, they decided to just transfer every file that Blaine didn't already have which would fit on his phone's microSD card. Blaine would sort them out later.

Landing no less uncomfortable on his senses than had been takeoff, Sam remembered how much he enjoyed the ground as the plane's wheels scraped against pavement. Passing through the security checkpoint and ignoring the signs for the baggage carousels (except for the clothes they wore, neither brought anything with them except the power cords for their phones), Sam's stomach growled. “Dude, I'm hungry.”

Blaine looked at him with droopy shoulders. “Ok- uhm, for what?”

“I dunno.” He remembered some of his favorite restaurants from the year he and Blaine had lived here.

“I don't really want to dawdle. Is that okay?”

“You can draw or paint as much as you want, bro.”

“Dawdling, not doodling,” Blaine corrected.

“What's dawdling again?”

“It's like, wasting time.” Oh, Blaine wanted this to be quick and dirty. In and out. _Gotcha._ This must be pretty hard for him. New York was the city where he came to have his wildest dreams fulfilled, and instead had them ripped to shreds. Sam got himself a cheeseburger and a bottle of water from one of the airport fast food restaurants, and ate as he followed Blaine to the bus.

New York was exactly as Sam remembered it: loud, crowded, smelling like garbage, and filled with people who acted like they were paid to be rude. At least some things never changed, a fact reaffirmed by the “street art” (i.e. profane words scrawled in happy colorful bubble letters) they saw entering Bushwick.

“There she is!” Sam exclaimed as he rounded the corner of Blaine's old apartment- where he assumed that Kurt still lived. He was so relieved that Blaine's ex hadn't had the green station wagon towed. Far from it, in fact. Kurt seemed to have kept her washed for him, its paint gleaming in the sunlight. That was pretty cool of him. If he didn't already know it would be too difficult for Blaine, he would have asked if they should stop to say hello to his old friend.

Blaine?

The shorter man no longer stood next to him. “Blaine?” Sam asked the air nearby, turning this way and that. When he didn't find the brunette anywhere, he decided to retrace his steps back to the bus stop. _Oh God, I hope he didn't freak out and bolt again._

Nope, he hadn't. Sam had taken barely four steps when he found Blaine on the other side of the same corner, leaning against the wall, immobile, with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Blaine? Buddy?” He snapped his fingers in front of his friend, who ignored them in favor of something else. Sam turned his head to follow Blaine's gaze.

There, standing not fifteen feet away, was Kurt.


	17. Behind These Hazel Eyes

It took every ounce of strength he had. Blaine held his ground, remained motionless against the wall.

“Come on, babe, they're waiting for us,” said a dark-haired cheerful guy, bouncing off the bus behind Kurt and pressing his lips lightly against a porcelain cheek. He wasn't noticed at first. When Kurt didn't respond, Elliot 'Starchild' Gilbert turned and saw him. “Oh. Hi, Blaine.”

No matter what Jake, Spencer, or anyone in BARF thought of his ability to fight, Blaine knew exactly what he was capable of. He could grab the glitter-rock vampire by those earrings and hurl him into the middle of the street. Take the hands placed around Kurt's waist and tear them from his shoulders. Make him squirm as he crushed his throat with his foot so badly that he'd never sing another note on key ever again. Rip those lying lips right off his face. 

There was no doubt in his mind at all that he could. But he wouldn't. Sam was there.

“Aw, that's cute. So much for not being interested in him,” Blaine growled, referring to a previous conversation he'd had with Elliot. He'd been told, in not so many words, 'I don't think about him that way.'

“Bla- erm...”

“Elliot, could you wait upstairs for me?” Blaine eyed him dangerously as The Enemy walked around he and Sam, giving them both a wide berth. 

When he was finally gone, “I knew he wanted you all along.”

“We're just friends.”

“Right.” Blaine grabbed Sam's face and gave him a brutal kiss on the cheek, mimicking the gesture that had passed before him not moments ago. The taller man stumbled backwards with a grunt at the force used. “Don't worry, Sam and I are just friends.”

“I put your Soda Stream and Xbox in the trunk. I thought you'd want them.”

He didn't give a damn about them. “I guess I should be lucky nobody broke into the car, then. It's been what, like a week since I moved home?”

Blaine's ex stood there with his arms crossed. Why the fuck were his arms always crossed? “Don't you mean, since you packed up and left without talking to me about it first?”

This was exactly the argument Blaine tried to avoid by leaving New York as quickly as possible. “Talk? Oh, you mean fight. How long did it take for you to even notice I was gone?”

Kurt rolled his eyes. “I knew when I woke up and there wasn't a freshly washed facial towel on the rack and your giant bottles of raspberry-scented hair gel were missing. You should have talked with me first, Blaine.”

“I tried to. I called you that night, before I decided to leave. You didn't pick up.”

“I was busy.”

“I was suicidal.”

“I didn't know.”

“You mean you didn't have time for me. Because you didn't want to deal with me. The way you haven't for months, the way you didn't when we broke up in high school.”

“Don't you mean, when you cheated on me?” Kurt asked, referring to his single indiscretion. Despite not being accepted to NYADA that semester, Blaine had encouraged his then-boyfriend to move to New York anyway and follow his dreams. Kurt had done so in an excited rush, leaving Blaine behind without even saying goodbye, and then virtually stopped communicating.

“Is that all you've got? It was almost two years ago, and I expressed a million times over how deeply I regretted it. You said you forgave me, but clearly you haven't. Only this time, we didn't break up because I cheated. We broke up for no substantial reason other than because _you wanted to_.”

“Hey dude,” Sam spoke up, gripping him gently by the shoulders. “Tone it down a notch. I'll wait over there. Take your time.”

Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.

The former couple faced off, both maintaining a calm, composed stance while the expressions on their face gave away their true feelings. He could read Kurt better than Kurt could read him. Kurt was annoyed. That was all Blaine was to him anymore: an annoyance. 

His words told another story, like a politician. “Your voicemail the other day really scared me. I was worried about you.”

“You have a funny way of showing it. I really hope that you deem Elliot worthy enough to return his calls. I already know I'm not.”

It would be really easy to blame Kurt for the collapse of his entire life. He had fought tooth and nail to keep them together during the last months of their engagement. He'd given Kurt everything that he wanted, poured his heart, soul, and body into their relationship and never asked for anything except for Kurt himself. What did he get in return? Everything that he'd built, everything that he was, destroyed. What did he have left? What was he now? Stuck in the same existence, a fading shadow constantly reliving the echoes of memory.

Blaine's stomach twisted, and kept twisting, until he wasn't sure whether it was hunger or emptiness that transformed into physical pain.

“What did you want me to do, Blaine?” Kurt's voice raised now. “Take you back so that we could continue to make each other miserable? Pretend like nothing was wrong? Kick you out onto the street?”

_I wanted you to act like what we used to have was at least special enough that you gave a shit about what happened to me_. He wanted so badly to say the words aloud. How could he believe that the love they'd shared was real, if Kurt could dismiss so easily the person who was supposed to be the most important in his life? 

Something in his head, speaking with Finn's voice, told him everything that happened to him was not Kurt's fault.

“I didn't want to give you false hope. Besides, I sent you a Facebook message.”

“Like a week ago, and you spoke with Sam.”

“I should have known you'd go running back to him. You always liked hanging out with him better, what with your comic books and video games and your weird Star Wars fanfiction obsession. Funny, how things between us started to go bad when he left.” Kurt nodded at where the blonde was standing, and called, “Your stupid kazoo is in the trunk, too.”

“Sam's got nothing to do with us. Don't you dare make this about Sam.”

Kurt threw his hands in the air. “I don't have time for this.”

“You never do,” the brunette muttered, watching as the former love of his life began to walk away. Each step brought acceptance that they would never be in love again.

But in spite of everything, all the fights and all the anger, he wished that things didn't have to end this way. They had been friends, once upon a time. Great friends, even before they'd started dating. For goodness sake, they'd finished each others' sentences the first time they ever sat down at Breadstix. Kurt had been a different person, then. So had Blaine. He'd been whole. He'd been stronger.

_I was supposed to protect him,_ he told the Finn-voice in his head.

_He can protect himself now._

Feeling Sam's presence near him again, Blaine expected to be pulled into comforting arms. Instead, his best friend breezed past him with an understanding glance, shouting at Kurt, “You stop right there!”

Kurt halted, his hand on the door of his building. He couldn't hear almost anything either said, speaking in hushed voices. What he did hear from Sam resembled his own unspoken thoughts. 

“... You asked me to... doing what I... but he needs cl... Finn would be... You have a choice-” 

“Of course I have a choice!” Kurt protested angrily. “I make choices every day... take the bus or the subway. I can choose... And he can choose to wallow... or he-”

“You loved him... was real. Show him... for nothing... If it has to end, don't let it end like this... that much.” Once again, Blaine marveled at how Sam seemed to understand him in ways that Kurt just could not. The blonde came to stand next to him, patted him gently on the back. The touch sent an inexplicable surge of confidence up his spine.

Kurt sighed, reluctantly returned, and told him with a straight face, “I never blamed you for what happened between us, Blaine. Maybe someday, we can learn how to be friends again.”

Another time, it may have been exactly what Blaine needed to hear. This time, it sounded of the most forced concession he'd ever heard the boy speak aloud. Blaine responded in song.

[**Behind These Hazel Eyes (Kelly Clarkson, acoustic cover by Abandoning Sunday)**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vGRRUGH1Iok)  


Seems like just yesterday you were a part of me.  
I used to stand so tall, I used to be so strong.  
Your arms around me tight, everything it felt so right;  
Unbreakable, like nothing could go wrong.

I told you everything, opened up and let you in.  
You made me feel all right for once in my life.  
And now all that's left of me is what I pretend to be:  
So together, but so broken up inside.

Cuz I can't breathe, no I can't sleep,  
I'm barely hangin on.

Here I am, once again, I'm torn into pieces.  
Can't deny it, can't pretend, I just thought you were the one  
Broken up deep inside, but you won't get to see the tears I cry  
Behind these hazel eyes.

When he finished, Blaine looked a wordless instruction at Sam as he pulled out his keys, walked to the driver's side door of the Green Whale, and got inside. He never saw Kurt step into his building and stride with purpose towards the stairs. He never saw Elliot, who'd never actually gone up the stairs, intercept his ex fiance with an unwanted hug. He never saw the way Sam watched him, awestruck, trance only broken by the sound of the car engine igniting.

Blaine was ready to leave this chapter of his life behind him. Maybe, somewhere on the road stretched before him, with Sam's and his parents' and Jerry's help, he could start a new one.


	18. The Way You Look At Me

The Soda Stream, Xbox, and kazoo weren't the only things Kurt placed in the Green Whale's rumble seat.

Once safely on the highway and making their way out of metropolitan New York, Sam took the liberty of climbing into the back to grab the kazoo. What he considered to be an old family heirloom, the instrument had been passed between the men of the Evans family ever since his father bought it for Sam in his childhood. Sam passed the object down to his brother Stevie as a birthday present when he reached the same age. Stevie, in turn, returned it to him when he moved back to Lima during his junior year of high school, to forever remind him of his brother. The kazoo had gone missing when he and Blaine moved into Mercedes' brownstone. They'd searched every box, every crevice, and despaired of ever finding it again. Blaine found it later in the Bushwick apartment, hidden beneath a cloth in a decorative bowl on the shelf. Neither friend knew how it had gotten there, nor remembered how it had evolved into its current function: a signal that Sam was feeling down or couldn't sleep and required Blaine's company and some Star Wars fanfiction.

Kurt hid the more expensive items under the cover of a blanket to minimize the theft appeal. Throwing the blanket aside in his search for the kazoo, Sam also found a guitar, two pillows and a minicooler containing coconut water, Pepsi, a ziplock bag of mixed nuts, and two sandwiches of turkey, bacon, and cheddar cheese. The drinks were still cold, the sandwiches still fresh. Blaine's ex must have placed the food, and possibly everything else, in the car an hour or less before the pair had arrived—not days ago, like he'd initially assumed. He wasn't sure why the pillows or guitar, but the coconut water was definitely meant for Sam. Blaine hadn't touched the stuff since trying some disgusting weight loss recipe he found on a celebrity blog. Kurt had expected them, both of them, Blaine _and_ Sam. Had he been waiting for them?

Careful not to draw Blaine's attention from the road, Sam pulled out his phone.

 **Blonde Chameleon:** hey, just want to say sry 4 how things went down.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** thx 4 the food n stuff.  
**Kurt Hummel:** You're welcome.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** how did u no?  
**Kurt Hummel:** You posted a picture from the plane.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** o rite. whos guitar?  
**Kurt Hummel:** It's Blaine's...  
**Blonde Chameleon:** u ok?  
**Kurt Hummel:** Just take care of him. Promise.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** i will, i swar  
**Blonde Chameleon:** but ur still my friend 2  
**Kurt Hummel:** I'll be fine. Drive safe.  
**Kurt Hummel:** Thanks, Sam.

The kazoo slipped into his pocket. Climbing back to the front seat, Sam asked, “Dude, when did you get a guitar?”

Blaine almost didn't respond, and Sam wondered whether or not he had heard him. Before he could repeat the question, though, “When you left New York.”

Sam did a double take, lips curled. “Really? Why?”

“I thought with everyone else gone, I could join Kurt's band. Only, we had to rename 'One Three Hill' if there was going to be four of us and I couldn't get them to agree on a new name. It just became something else we fought about.”

“That sucks. Well, I forgot that you even knew how to play. You're always on a piano. Are you hungry? You haven't eaten anything yet and it looks like Kurt packed us some sandwiches.”

“I don't want it,” Blaine grumbled, without even looking. Sam decided not to press any further. The encounter still too raw for him, maybe Blaine would re-consider Kurt's gesture of decency when the sun went down and his stomach started to growl. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that Blaine wouldn't make many stops on the way home.

The two spent much of the first leg of their road trip in silence. Both plugged their phones into the car's electrical socket, neither attempted to play any music, surf the internet, or use the devices for any function other than navigation. The quiet gave Sam plenty of time to think about stuff, himself. He was never really good at the thinking, tried to avoid it as much as possible. Now all he could do was think, and wish, for the life of him, that he could stop looking at Blaine.

Contemplative Blaine probably replayed his interaction with Kurt repeatedly in his head, wondering if things could have been said differently. Or maybe fought physically, instead of verbally. He'd read Blaine's tense body language, saw the look broiling inside him. The brunette had been ready to hurt someone, until Elliot left. Unlike the recent examples back in Ohio, this time something had held Blaine back. He was beginning to regain control. That was Blaine, he needed control. He was still in there.

It was Sam's obligation—no, his privilege—to help his best friend find that person again. He wouldn't give up on him. Ever. 

He remembered how he and Blaine clung to each other in the McKinley choir room the day of the shooting. Believing that someone was running around shooting at students, the two had sat in terror together worrying about Brittany and Tina, who weren't with them. Each of their friends remembered how Sam struggled twice to escape the room, determined to search for and if necessary save his then-girlfriend. Everyone thought he'd stopped struggling because Mr. Shue offered to find her and bring her back. Sitting next to the blonde on the floor behind the piano, nobody knew Blaine was the reason he'd stopped. 

An eternity after Mr. Shue closed the door behind him, Sam was ready to make a last push through the barricade. Maybe he couldn't get past Will Shuester and Shannon Bieste together, but he was certain his football coach couldn't stop him without help. Then he'd seen Blaine's eyes. They were terrified, all of them were terrified. But Blaine cast him a look that said 'I'm coming with you this time.' Not to help find Brittany, not to locate Tina, not for any reason but to protect Sam. He would push down every debilitating emotion so that Sam needn't go out into the danger zone alone. It had confused Sam long enough for Mr. Shue to return with Brittany and a few others in tow.

He remembered how, after he received his extraordinarily low SAT score, Brittany (sweet, oblivious Brittany) told him that his attractive body meant he didn't need college. She couldn't tell how small that made him feel. So, freaking out about his future and his personal sense of self-worth, Sam had become a total dick and exhausted himself trying to accept that his good looks were the only thing anyone valued of him. Standing in the locker room, lifting to get his muscles to pop for Tina's Men of McKinley calendar photoshoot, Blaine reminded him that he was more than just an attractive body. Blaine hadn't seemed at all distracted by the blonde's washboard abs, hard nipples, bulging arms, or tight red trunks.

_“You don't know what it's like! You can sing and dance, and you kick butt in school, and you're all charming and everything. I have to announce my presence with authority the second I walk into a room. People have to notice me, or else they never will. People laugh at my impressions because how I look already has them onboard. If you want to make it in this world, you have to be special.”_

_“But you are special.” Blaine looked at him like he actually believed it. “Even without your body.”_

_“No I'm not, man. It's all I have. I'm... exhausted. Watching what I eat all the time, my two-a-day workouts-”_

_“Let it go. Have a burger every now and then. Eat a bag of Cheetohs. Skip your workout, sleep in a little. Your body isn't gonna change. And even if you have_ seven _percent body fat, you're gonna see that all of us are still gonna love you. And we're gonna laugh at your impressions.”_

He remembered how Blaine showed him how much he was worth, how much he'd accomplished, by filming and editing video interviews with each of Sam's friends. Hell, even Santana had contributed and managed to say words that weren't savagely insulting. Each person interviewed described at least one way Sam had touched or influenced their lives, and how they felt about him.

_“And let's not forget when Sam took care of his entire family after his dad lost his job,” digital-Finn reminisced. “They were living in a motel, homeless, and Sam supported them. I mean, that's pretty amazing. He's a really substantial person.”_

_Tears streaming from his eyes, Sam took the shorter man in his arms. They'd stayed in the astronomy room like that, Blaine lifting him up when he'd been kicked down, holding him up so that he couldn't fall. When Sam could finally speak, he said, “I can't believe you did this for me.”_

_He could feel Blaine's smile against his shoulder. “That's what friends are for, right?”_

_Sam pulled back, looked down into twin orbs that shimmered up at him like molten gold. “No. This is way more than what friends are for, man. Nobody else would have done this. I've never had any friends w-who-” His voice cracked, and Blaine shushed him. He buried his face in Blaine's neck. “I don't know what I did to deserve your friendship. I haven't been half as good a friend to you as you've been to me.”_

_“You shut your mouth. You're so much more than you give yourself credit for, Sam Evans. You're one of the most valued people in my life, and our friendship means the world to me.”_

_“I can't believe you've been my best friend for less than a year. I can't remember what it was like not knowing you.”_

But the memory that currently plagued Sam's mind, bits and pieces snipped into all of the other memories, was that of Blaine standing on the curb, singing that hauntingly beautiful rendition of a Kelly Clarkson song to Kurt. What made Blaine an amazing performer was that he never performed. He _existed_ in every song, poured himself into the words, became the music. There may as well have been a piano atop the Green Whale, keying along with the brunette as clouds parted above them and an angel choir knelt in reverence. 

He was still in there. No matter what he was going through, no matter how broken or empty he felt, Blaine was still in there. He could see it, coax it out. The caring, wonderful boy who had always been there for him with his spellbinding voice and enchanting eyes; who had encouraged him in New York to get off his ass and make something of his life instead of spending the day depressed and playing video games; who had been the first to come looking for him at Finn's funeral; who got all of his jokes or at least pretended to; who believed in Sam and supported him through the worst; who Sam wanted to squeeze until he burst. 

Blaine was a full-on, walks-on-water, miracle incarnate and if only he had his mother's parts, he and Sam would be a perfect couple. Because let's face it, Milfbird Anderson was fucking gorgeous and Blaine's father was a lucky man. And every time Pam looked at him with those eyes, those hazel eyes...

Blaine's eyes... Oh. Shit. Is that why he popped a chubber every time she looked at him?

No, I'm straight, he thought. _I don't have the hots for Blaine. Do I? I'm just horny and his mom is hot. And they both smell like raspberries. I like girls. Legs, boobs, ass. Boobs, ass, legs. Ass, legs, boobs. I'm straight. I'm straight I'm straightI'mstraight._

His best friend broke the quiet, and Sam completely lost track of his thoughts. “Could you ask my parents for Jerry Hayward's contact info?”

Sam couldn't hide his approval, cavernous smile splitting his face. He'd hoped Blaine would choose this path. Willing to do anything he could to help, Sam was by no means a therapist. “I don't have their number.”

His best friend plucked the power cable from his cell phone and nudged the device against his arm, saying, “Here.”

“Mind if I ask what made your decision?” Sam asked, accepting the phone and scrolling through the contact list. When Blaine didn't respond, he stopped typing out a text to Todd and turned to look at him. “I'm sorry. You don't have to tell me.”

“No, it's okay. I'm just not really sure I can explain it myself. I... I'm tired of feeling like this. I just don't know how to stop.”

Sam took the hand which wasn't guiding the car's steering wheel into his own. “I seem to remember a driven, ambitious, intelligent, talented, caring, adorkable gay bro who could burst into song at the breakfast table for no other reason than because he was happy. Maybe I can re-acquaint you.”

“I'm not going to cry, if that's what you're waiting for.”

“... I wasn't?”

“Then why have you been watching me?”

Without really knowing how he would answer that yet, Sam tried to turn the table a bit. “You don't have to be uncomfortable,” he said, leaning towards Blaine. He mimicked almost exactly the posture, tone, and inflections he'd taken in the McKinley auditorium when he'd confronted Blaine about his crush, knowing full well that his best friend remembered the moment exactly as well as he did.

Blaine agreed with a succinct, “No.”

The not-blonde released Blaine's hand. “Did you want me to come with you? I mean, I've got some very important plans. You know, sitting alone in your house while both your parents are at work, hooking up your Xbox to one of those giant TVs. But I suppose I could cancel, for you.”

When Blaine turned those eyes on him with adoring thanks, Sam could have melted into the most irrationally huge puddle if only it meant the boy would take a sponge to him. 

After the sun set, things got wet all right. The last rays of golden sunlight caressed the darker man's features a few hours out of New York. Shadows closed around them, and the sky opened to blanket the road and the Green Whale's windows with slick rain. If Sam took the wheel and drove while Blaine slept, the pair could be back in Westerville before dawn. However, Sam hadn't gotten any more rest than his best friend, and knew he would begin to fade before they made it home. It was less risky to stop for the night, but neither knew how close was the closest motel. By happy coincidence they were right outside of Black Moshannon State Park, where they had spent the night a year ago when they'd driven the car to New York in the first place.

“We have smart phones. We could check.”

“Nevermind, dude. We've got pillows and a blanket and snacks. It'll be fun, like last time. Except hopefully without the bears.”

Too tired to argue, Blaine pulled off the highway. The forest wrapped around them as they parked the car in what almost (but not quite) passed for a secluded glade. As before, Sam wanted to fold down the back seat in order to turn the trunk into a makeshift bed where he could stretch his legs. Try as they might, neither could get the right angle to accomplish the task from sitting inside the car. So they stepped out and got soaked, but succeeded in getting the seat down. The first thing Blaine did upon crawling back inside the car was to lock the doors, in case any bears or unfriendly humans happened to find them in the night. The first thing Sam did was scoot the passenger seat forward, strip off his wet clothes, and shove them to the floor.

“What are you doing?” Blaine asked when he heard Sam unzipping his pants.

He smirked. “Like what you see, Anderson?”

“I can barely see anything. I'm just assuming you're taking stuff off. Again.”

“Ain't no carpool lane to sexy. Take off your clothes. Neither of us needs to catch a cold tonight.”

“I'd rather get sick than freeze to death?”

“It's not that cold.”

“Yet.”

“We'll keep each other warm. Plus, Kurt gave us this nice, warm blanket.” Blaine relented with a sigh, pulling his shirt and pants off in almost complete darkness. No starlight, moonlight, or streetlight shone through the windows. Sam tapped a few buttons on his phone to activate his flashlight app, then set it down with the light directed at the roof to create a source of diffuse light.

“Your bruises are almost completely gone,” Sam observed, eyes scrutinizing Blaine's torso. As before, with his CERT training, he ran his hands over his friend's torso, prodding to assess his condition. To his relief, Sam found that he wasn't turned on by Blaine's state of undress the way he would have been if breasts stared at him instead of hazel eyes.

The same eyes which gazed at him at the cemetery in Lima, placing all his trust in Sam, when they'd kissed him for the first time. And the second time, in his bedroom. Those eyes were locked onto his again, like they always seemed to be lately. Blaine guided Sam's hands away with a reassuring flash of teeth.

“We should eat these. They won't make it until morning.” He pulled the minicooler over and before Blaine could reject the food again, he plopped the turkey sandwich between his friend's legs and handed him the Pepsi.

“I'm not really-”

“Don't even try. You haven't eaten anything since breakfast,” Sam instructed, taking a bite of his own sandwich. As he chewed, he set the food down next to his phone and reached for Blaine's guitar, finding it perfectly tuned.

[ **The Way You Look At Me (Christian Bautista)** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ti8Jp7rY_E)  


No one ever saw me like you do  
All the things that I could add up to  
I never knew just what a smile was worth  
But your eyes say everything  
Without a single word

If I could freeze a moment to my mind  
It'd be the second that you touched your lips to mine  
I'd like to stop the clock make time stands still  
'Cause, baby, this is just the way  
I always wanna feel

'Cause there's something in the way you look at me  
It's as if my heart knows  
You're the missing piece  
You make me believe  
That there's nothing in this world I can't be  
I'll never know what you see  
But there's something in the way you look at me

“Kurt said the only reason I bought that guitar was because I missed hearing you play,” Blaine said around his can of Pepsi.

“Is that true?”

His friend cracked open a can of coconut water, set it down next to Sam's sandwich. “Maybe a little bit.” 

“I missed you, too, man. I know it was only a few weeks, but they were the wrongest weeks, you know?” He set Blaine's guitar down on the far end of the trunk, took the bag of nuts from the cooler, and a swig of his drink. “I never asked you about Spencer.”

“What about him?”

“Your dad said you'd been hanging out. Was I right? He's gay?”

“Yes, Sam, he's gay. But it was only for Fight Club. I'm not into him.”

“Are you sure? He's totally your type. Tall, blonde-”

“And still in high school. Plus, you know...” The brunette's voice trailed off, and he looked through the window out at the darkness.

“Yeah, I know.” Sam bumped a fist against his friend's bare knee. “If he hurts you again, I swear on everything that's holy he'll regret it.”

By way of changing the subject, his friend asked, “Have you spoken to Mercedes at all since she left?”

Except for the message to Blaine's Facebook account—which Sam accidentally responded to a week ago at Papa John's—he hadn't, and said so. “I've left comments on her Facebook posts, but I guess she's busy.”

“I'm sorry, man.”

“It's whatever, you know?”

Blaine had been there for him after he and Brittany had broken up, lending a sympathetic shoulder when he deplored of ever finding love. None of his relationships ever lasted longer than a few weeks, a couple of months if he was lucky. Sometimes, it was really difficult to remember that he was more than his body when women seemed to just use him and toss him aside. Yeah, Brittany had apologized for freaking out over her early acceptance into a great college. But let's be honest, they didn't have a whole lot in common, and she'd never really gotten over Santana. She'd paid more attention to her cat than she had to Sam. Speaking of Santana, there was a lesbian who'd thoroughly taken advantage of all his male parts and hadn't shed a tear when it ended. 

Then, going to the extreme opposite, Mercedes had been resolutely abstinent. Yes, he respected her and her steadfast virtue. But he had loved her so much, and hadn't been allowed to show her how much in the way he knew best. Not even close, since every time that he tried to take his shirt off or they made out for longer than ten minutes she would push him off. Sam had to wonder, no matter how much she cared about him, why she didn't trust him.

_“I know that this sounds old fashioned but there's this special part in my soul, and it's the most sacred and vulnerable part, and when I give that to a man, I'll be completely exposed. I can't just do that with just anyone.”_

_He tried really hard not to be offended by that description of their relationship, but in seconds he failed. “I'm not 'just anyone.' ” Standing up to walk away, Sam wasn't sure if he was trying to convince her or himself._

_“I need to know that the man that I'm with is gonna be there for me forever. I want him to be my husband and I want him to open up to me in the same way, too.” Because he hadn't opened up to her? Really? “And maybe when I do it, I'll feel silly for making it such a big deal. But maybe I won't.”_

_“So you're saying it's_ never _gonna happen unless we get married?” I mean yeah, he wanted to marry her. He would marry her in an instant if he were like twenty-five and a successful model who could afford to fulfill her every wish. But he was nineteen, and his modeling career hadn't even taken root yet!_

_“Well, yeah. I mean for now, we just have to figure out ways to feel close that aren't physical.”_

_“Okay so what's the difference between that, and just being really good friends?”_

Hell, he'd shared a bed with Mercedes for how long? And somehow he felt more intimate with Blaine, especially in the last week, than the entire time he'd dated the diva. Who was he closer with than Blaine? Not a single living being, on this planet or any of the Nine Realms of Yggdrasil.

Todd texted them Jerry's cell phone number, without making a big deal over it. Blaine didn't wait to call the old family friend. They made arrangements to meet up for coffee the following afternoon. As far as Sam was concerned, when it came to Blaine's deliverance, the sooner, the better. The two friends stayed up for a little while longer, finishing their dinner. Blaine resumed the search for that mp3 of his that he'd heard. Sam resumed his watching of Blaine, trying not to be obvious about it.

When they started to fade, Blaine leaned forward to arrange the blanket and Sam took both the pillows and propped them behind his shoulders. With his arms spread out, his friend didn't question the invitation. Blaine curled up against him, head resting against his chest, breath racing over his skin. Sam tucked the edges of the blanket beneath them to better hold in the heat. Comfortable with each others' silence, neither said another word as they drifted to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blaine wasn't entirely sure what awoke him abruptly in the middle of the night. Lying next to Sam, the brunette listened carefully for anything that sounded like a bear. Or a drooling werewolf. Even from the safety of Sam's arms, he almost couldn't bring himself to check the windows, imagining a deranged lunatic watching them from the outside. But there wasn't anything there. Everything outside was still. Even the rain had stopped. Clouds overhead parted to allow moonlight and starlight to creep into the forest and through the car windows, casting a cold halo over the two resting friends.

A sniffle. A shifting arm that wrapped tightly around his abdomen. A tiny wetness that dripped onto his cheek. Was Sam crying? He whispered his friend's name, but didn't receive a response. He was ready to dismiss it and try to go back to sleep when the taller man started thrashing.

“Sam!” He rolled over to face his friend, ignoring the way it felt when their underwear strafed together. His best friend didn't stop, his face distorted like he was in pain. “Sam, you're dreaming! Wake up!”

Placing a hand on the not-blonde's chest, Blaine jumped when Sam's eyes flew open and he grabbed Blaine by the shoulders. “Forgive me!” he cried, tears now streaming from his eyes. “Don't go...”

“You're okay, everything is okay.” 

His breathing heavy, pale even in the pale light, Sam asked, “Are you real?” 

Blaine looked confused. “I think I am, anyway. You were dreaming.” The not-blonde sighed and sat up, realizing only then that his face was wet. He wiped at it with the blanket, visibly shaken, and not from being cold. “Hey, are you okay? You seem really... uhm, do you want to talk about it?”

“Y-you were dead, B. You killed yourself. I was putting on a suit for your funeral. Everyone expected me to say something because I was your ex-fiance. But I couldn't. I ran. Stevie, he followed me. He said, 'I don't think I really understood you together, but it made you happy. I'm not sure why you ever broke up.' I tried to explain, but-”

“Sam-”

“-I couldn't stop crying. I just kept saying, 'Why didn't I help him? I should have helped him!' It felt so real. I was so lost. Then you appeared, not alive-you but ghost-you. You looked at me, and waved like you were saying goodbye-” 

“I'm here. See?” Blaine folded his hand in his own, held them between their chests until Sam's breathing leveled. 

And then Sam surged forward and captured Blaine's mouth with his and rolled over so that Blaine was beneath him and Sam's arms crawled under his shoulders and crushed him against Sam's chest and Sam was between his legs and devouring him like it was the end of the world and the only passion remained and-

“Wait-” Blaine tried to turn his head away, but the bigger man grasped his face between his hands and only kissed him harder. An hour might have passed, or a minute, during which nothing else in the world existed except the ecstasy that was Sam, his lips, and his almost-naked muscles.

He didn't get another opportunity to stop the Sam-whirlwind until the blonde came up for air, resting his cheek on Blaine's forehead. “Sam, I thought you needed more time?”

“I don't need any more time.”

“Okay, so let's talk.”

“You sure there aren't other things you want to do with your mouth?”

Blaine pushed the not-blonde (and his raging hardon) off of him. “Look, I want to get better. I do. But, you're kinda messing with my head right now. Every time I just wanna kill something, or hide under my blanket for all eternity, you're there and somehow you make everything better for a while. You're the only one left to me, Sam. I can't lose you.”

Sam didn't hear a word of what he said, and blindsighted him with, “You move me, Blaine.”

_“You move me, Kurt,” Blaine said to the porcelain boy, whose eyes widened at the revelation. “And this duet would just be an excuse to spend more time with you.” Left speechless, no one stopped him as Blaine surged forward and captured Kurt's mouth with his and-_

The whizzing noise of Sam's kazoo, and a strong hand interlacing fingers between his broke him free of the memory. “Hey, no, stay with me, B. I'm trying to tell you something here. I just- you know I suck with the whole words thing.”

Blaine smiled, and covered Sam's fingers with his other hand. He'd done it again, whatever he did. So, Blaine would allow his best friend to figure out how to articulate himself.

“At first, I thought I was just horny, you know? Cuz I haven't had sex since Britt broke up with me, and Mercedes wouldn't even take my shirt off much less travel below the belt. And come on, even you've gotta see that your mom is a fucking hottie.”

“Oh Jesus, please stop.”

“No, let me finish! So, like, everything turns me on, you know? You know what that's like, you went for how long without sex during senior year of high school?”

“Pretty much the entire year, except for Eli and when Kurt and I hooked up at Mr. Shue's aborted first wedding. Please tell me you weren't thinking about my mom when I caught you yesterday.”

“No, I wasn't. By the way, since I never 'finished' I've got a huge load worked up now thanks to you. So thanks, haha.”

“Okay, focus. Keep going.”

“Right. Anyway, I wasn't getting chubbers around your mom because I was hot for her. You look so much like your dad- don't give me that look, you're supposed to be listening. You look so much like your dad, except for the eyes. Your eyes are her eyes, and when she looks at me all I see is you staring back at me. Not the 'you' that's depressed-'you,' but the 'you' that's my closest and dearest friend when he's himself. The guy who believes in me, and touches my heart without even trying. Does that make sense?”

“My mom turns you on because she reminds you of me?”

“No, I get turned on because I get turned on. I'm a nineteen year old guy who went from getting more sex than I knew what to do with, to absolutely none. Hell, I bet if you cut open a pomegranate right now I'd think it was hot.”

“Is that a roundabout way of saying you're not attracted to me?”

“That's not it. I mean yeah, I'm still straight. I like girls, that hasn't changed. I don't think I'm bi, because I'm not turned on by guys. Like, you know how you can look at a girl and tell whether or not she's sexy, even though you're not attracted to her? That's kinda like me. You know, like Spencer? I can totally see why you'd want to climb all up on that shit, even though you'd rather have me. Yeah, I know the universe would be in harmony if things between you and Kurt had been different. But I know you're still attracted to me. Don't deny it. And I know that me touching helps you, even though I'm not really sure why.”

Blaine inhaled and exhaled deeply, tugging at the blanket. “So where does that put us? Experiments? I don't want to be an experiment.”

“It's not about that with you. It's not a physical attraction, it's more. Maybe Kurt was your soulmate, but our souls are connected, too. Sometimes, I feel like I can read your mind, feel what you're feeling-”

“Definitely gotten the impression that you can do that.”

“I've never had a relationship like this with anyone else, B. No one. Not ever. Not friends, not girlfriends. The closest thing is with my family, like how Stevie, Stacy, and I all seem to just get each other.”

“So, I'm like your brother?”

“Stop interrupting me. Yeah, you're like my brother. Like, in a soul way. Like soulbros. You know what that means to me? It means that if you were a girl, you'd be my perfect wife. It means that I am going to be your rock by any means necessary. It means that I've got your back the same way you've always had mine. It means that I am going to help you and protect you and give you the world if I can. It means that no sacrifice is too big if it helps you. It means that when you forget how important you are, I will always remind you. And it means that when I thought you were dead, even though it was only a dream, it killed me to think that you died not knowing how much you mean to me. I won't let another day go by without letting you know.”

Blaine wasn't sure Sam knew what he was saying anymore, or whether or not any of it made any sense. Sam seemed to think that it did, at least in his mind. “How much do I mean to you, Sam?” Blaine pleaded, needing to know the answer.

Sam responded by enveloping his huge body around him again. By the time the sun rose, their underwear had been tossed aside and no blankets had been needed to keep them warm during the night.


	19. What You Wish For

Dawn brought surcease to dreams and with it, the rebirth of a fantasy. Peeking between the trees of the glade, the first rays of sunrise splashed a radiant warmth through the Green Whale's windows. They frolicked among chirping birds in the crisp morning air, safe in their nests with family nearby. Reflecting off tan leather car seats, they caught on the roof where the shadows of leafy branches danced. 

The sunlight bathed a magnificent creature whose skin was gilded not in the polished cream of ivory, but in the purest gold. It framed a face beneath a gleaming auric crown which shined more brightly than even nature could fathom, defying its proper hue. It rippled over plains and valleys, energy and matter cooperating to accentuate a perfect landscape of unyielding muscle. Even the shadows refused to darken its features, hard yet supple, strong yet gentle, proud yet humble—so different from the eternally youthful elf, the only other person next to whom waking up had ever felt this comfortable.

Sam was nothing like Kurt. Kurt didn't have the endearingly soft snore crumbling from his nose. Kurt wouldn't have fallen asleep with a kazoo dangling ridiculously from his lips. Kurt's penis wasn't as long or thick, or standing rock-hard in the bed of Blaine's car right now. He'd wondered in high school what it would be like, waking up next to a naked Sam. This fantasy-made-reality was providence. It was completely unfair that even the smallest portion of Blaine's mind wanted to compare the two this morning.

He didn't even know how to describe what had happened with Sam last night. It was definitely not a love-making; they hadn't had sex. Nor was it empty lust, although Blaine now completely embraced his lust for his best friend. There was too much passion and emotion in the way Sam met his lips, cradled Blaine's face in his hands. Yes, Sam had gotten hard—probably more from the friction and skin contact than anything else, they'd assumed. Blaine, himself, suffered an unexpected climax when Sam moved powerfully, crushing the smaller man to his chest, his own dick fighting a losing battle with Sam's for dominion between their abdomens. Despite the not-blonde's declaration of horniness, Sam had declined Blaine's offer to reciprocate. Also, Sam (bless his soul) couldn't define the word 'reciprocate.' 

He'd held Blaine tightly for a time, until heavy breathing leveled and the warm sticky between them cooled on night air. Sam kissed his forehead, then reached into the pocket of his pants on the floor, pulled out his kazoo, and blew into it. Whuzzzzzzz... 

They'd fallen asleep laughing. Blaine couldn't remember the last time that happened. 

The last thing Blaine heard before dreams took him was Sam murmuring, “Love you, B.” It could very well have been part of the dreams. Regardless, he didn't need to hear the words to believe them; it had been demonstrated sufficiently. If Sam continued to do so, maybe Blaine would begin to feel that he deserved it. No, not begin. Remember.

The first thing Blaine thought upon waking up was that naked Sam, splayed in the light of dawn, was the only thing about his life right now that made him glad to be still alive. If it was unfair that Blaine's mind made any comparison whatsoever to Kurt, it was downright outrageous that Sam hadn't cum while showing Blaine that he was loved.

“Are you awake?” Blaine asked quietly. His tall friend stopped snoring. “Sam?” A muted grunt escaped the giant lips. He placed a hand on Sam's chest to gauge his best friend's level of awareness. A massive cock bounced somewhere in his peripheral vision. 

“Can I give you head?” At first there was no response, and Blaine was ready to resign himself back to sleep. He wasn't going to be that predatory gay who betrayed straight guys by touching their privates without consent. Then:

Whuzzzzz....

No obvious sign that Sam was alert, except for the kazoo. Hanging cautiously from his lips before, the musical instrument was now held firmly by a trouty mouth. With absolute certainty that the function of the Evans family heirloom had just evolved to something again new, and would no longer be passed down between Sam's relatives, Blaine grinned and scooted himself down between muscled legs.

At Pisa, men gaped with awe at the architectural marvel that was The Leaning Tower. In the back of the Green Whale, so, too, did Blaine's eyes widen in appreciation. It's taller than my face, Blaine thought, checking his cheeks for excessive stubble and taking in the upward view from ball-level. Nose ghosted against sensitive, silky skin as it traveled up Sam's masculinity. On its way back down it was accompanied by the light touch of the tip of a tongue, leaving a thinly moistened trail. For his efforts, Blaine heard Sam's breath catch for a moment.

The next time Blaine moved he grabbed the head of Sam's fat cock and, starting from its base, dragged wetted lips up until they met his fingers, then together they moved back down. He repeated this a few times, slowly, memorizing everything. Not just the way Sam felt, but everything: the car, the glade just outside the car windows, the view across Sam's stomach and expansive chest at his peaceful, angelic face. The kazoo fell as Sam exhaled sharply, and slid down to the pillow beside the athletic man's neck.

A few passes over, around, and under, and it was ready. He grasped its base firmly between his fingers and took the head into his mouth. Even fully moistened, he couldn't get it past the back of his mouth. It took several attempts, lips stretching as best they could to cover his teeth, before the beast pushed down his throat. Blaine gagged. He'd never been with a man this size before. He was up for the challenge, though, especially for Sam.

He honestly had no idea why physical contact with Sam affected him the way it did. Only a few days ago he'd torn from the Lima Bean into Schoonover Park, where Sam abated a shame spiral by tackling him to the grass. Only a few days ago he'd been pulled out of a rage, ready to scalp Ryder over dinner, when Sam dragged him out into the parking lot. Every time his mind wandered to Kurt while cooking, Sam was behind him before he could lose himself. Every time memory threatened to conquer him, Sam's calming touch brought reinforcements to the war. Even when faced directly by Kurt and Elliot, as he teetered on the cusp of a bitterly indignant eruption, Sam's hands helped him regain control. Blaine knew that if Sam hadn't been there yesterday, he very likely would have hurt someone. Maybe Jerry could help him understand why this was so. Until then, he would just be thankful that Sam drove away that feeling of being alone.

Several tries later, his throat muscles finally relaxed enough to permit entry. With one last re-wetting, Blaine plunged down onto the slab of meat. He took it all the way down, reveling in how full his face felt, imagining that he could feel Sam's heartbeat in the arteries that smashed his tongue flat. He was rewarded with a hand gripping his shoulder, and ventured a glance upward.

Sam's eyes were open, and staring right at him. Blaine almost came just from that. 

Encouraged, taking the not-blonde's heavy low-hangers into the palm of one hand, he went to work. For however long it was, Blaine's existence consisted entirely of Sam's dick. It didn't slide easily down his throat. Tears welled and leaked from the corner of his eyes, not from emotion but because the appendage cut off his air supply with each downstroke. He gagged a few more times, too, taking time to catch his breath, hoping that he didn't get himself stuck in that position, before deepthroating the beast again. Sam's breathing became heavy, the expression on his face strained. At one point he felt testicles draw inward, suggesting Sam was approaching a climax. He stopped his ministrations to tug them back down, earning him a whimper from his best friend. With his free hand, Blaine squeezed and used his thumb to massage the underside of the base. 

He could no longer remember a time when he wasn't attracted to Sam, hadn't wanted to know Sam this way. Not-Blonde Chameleon wasn't a model anymore, but he still had the physique of one. Hell, with this cock he could probably be a porn star if he wanted. He was more than that, too. This was the only man who made Blaine feel valued; safe; accepted; loved. He couldn't give Sam much in return, but he could give Sam this. He deserved it, and so much more.

His friend grew impossibly harder, heavier, the grip on Blaine's shoulder became stronger. Before he knew it, the balls began to tighten in his hand again. With Sam's cock completely engulfed still, he met Sam's eyes again, asking the question with a simple thumb up.

The response he received, beyond the desperation shining on every feature of Sam's incandescent face, was also a simple thumb up.

Blaine released Sam's balls and, with both hands this time, began to massage the base of his penis. He also increased the pumping rate he applied, using his tongue as best he could to put pressure to the meaty appendage on the upward stroke. Sam hissed and took hold of his head, one hand grasping the back of his still-gelled hair, the other gripping beneath his chin, as he guided Blaine up to a speed he wouldn't be able to maintain for long without breaking his neck.

The first rope of cum shot out and hit the back of his throat with unexpected force. The sound of Sam crying out was the best thing Blaine could remember hearing. He buried the cock to the hilt, nose scratching against neatly-trimmed pubic hair. He swallowed several more explosions as his friend trembled. When it seemed he'd taken the most powerful of it, Blaine pulled up just enough to take hold of the meat again with both hands and milk the remainder of Sam's orgasm out, swirling his tongue every way he could. The trembling stopped, and Blaine looked back up over Sam's muscular body into his eyes. The man was totally wrecked. 

“Good morning, Sunshine,” Blaine said, using his friend's own words at him. Only, Sam more aptly fit that description in this light.

“Fuuuck...” the former-model groaned, visibly deflating. He remained quiet (but awake) while Blaine savored his taste, before climbing up to fulfill another high school fantasy: flattening his face over Sam's washboard abs.

“That was... Am I still hard? I'm still hard.”

“Want me to do it again?”

“N-need a break. Shi-it. How did you learn to do that?”

He giggled at that. “I guess you liked it.”

“Bro, I don't know if it's just cuz it's been so long since anyone touched Beucephalus besides me -”

“Beucephalus?”

“-or if it's because guys give better head than girls. Totally can't say from personal experience whether or not that's true. But I will say one thing.”

“What's that?”

“No girl has ever deepthroated me before and lived. But holy shit, I needed to bust that nut.”

“Glad to help. Especially since you didn't get to last night. Or the night before.”

Sam grinned at him victoriously, propping himself up on his elbows to better see Blaine. Kurt all but forgotten now, the view of Sam from this perspective was spectacular. “Do you want me to, uh... you know... you?”

The hesitation in his voice was very apparent, and also a little confusing. Despite Sam's offer, Blaine could tell that he really didn't want to. Even after making out last night, cuddling naked together, and now getting head from his best friend, his best friend still wasn't attracted to guys and was a little put-off by the thought of a penis in his face. What would it mean about Sam's heterosexuality (or heteroflexibility) if he discovered that he liked giving head as well as receiving it?

Maybe Blaine was starting to acquire some of Sam's recently-developed telepathy.

He decided not to let this bring him down from his high, to let his friend off easy. “No. This was just for you. Thanks, though.”

“Why? My lips feel incredible.”

“I know they do. But... Okay, getting head is one thing. What guy wouldn't get hard from that? But if you blew me? I don't know if that would mean something different to you.” Despite their conversation the previous night, or perhaps because of it, Blaine couldn't just force Sam to be more than he was ready for. If Sam had come right out and said that he was bisexual, it would be different. But he didn't, he'd said, 'I'm not turned on by guys.' 

If he'd said he was bi, maybe Blaine couldn't even do it then. What chance did he have at a budding new romance? As often as he had fantasized about being with Sam in high school, as excited yet grounded as Sam made him now, Blaine really needed his best friend.

Sam seemed to consider his words carefully, then changed the subject. “I guess our clothes didn't dry at all in here. We need to get home in time to change before Jerry.” Blaine stopped him from sitting up with a hand to his chest. “Uh, what?”

Blaine brought himself up, sitting cross-legged between Sam's outstretched legs. “Sam... I just want you to know-”

Chameleon took Nightbird's hand in his own, smiling down a million-dollar smile. “I know, B,” he acknowledged, taking his telepathic muscles out this morning's run. “P.S. How is your hair always perfectly gelled?”

The two pulled their wet underwear on and said their farewells to the Black Mosh. Blaine arranged the pillows, collected their garbage, and organized the guitar with everything back into the trunk. Sam unfolded the seat back into its upright position, dried the car seats of any stray water with the blanket, and grabbed their cell phones and power cords for the front seat. But when Blaine took the driver's side door handle, he found Sam's hand there first. “Nope. My turn. You drove yesterday.”

“I'm fine to drive.”

“It's still a long way to Westerville. You can't give me road head if you're driving.” The brunette grinned like an idiot and climbed into the passenger seat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

By the time the pair made it back to the Anderson house, both Pam and Todd were at work. Exiting the car, Blaine covered himself with their wet clothes, unlocked the front door, hung their garments to dry in the backyard, and hopped into the shower. Sam, entirely too unashamed of his body, strode out into public from the driver's seat in his wet Treasure Trailz boxer briefs, and brought the pillows, blanket, and minicooler inside. He waited in the kitchen for Blaine to finish, crunching on a crisp apple while peeling an orange. His iPhone chirped.

 **Asian Persuasion:** Interns don't get vacation benefits.  >=[  
**Blonde Chameleon:** poo. so well c u sat nstd of fri?  
**Asian Persuasion:** The earliest flight that isn't completely booked and doesn't cost $1000  
**Asian Persuasion:** and has a window seat wouldn't arrive until 11:30pm.  
**Asian Persuasion:** That's a lot for a day trip.  
**Asian Persuasion:** Mom would kill me.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** wuts wrong w/an isle seat?  
**Asian Persuasion:** You're kidding?  
**Asian Persuasion:** Flight attendants bang me with the snack cart.  
**Asian Persuasion:** Gross old guys crawl over me to use the restroom.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** ok. uh take train?  
**Asian Persuasion:** Just nevermind, Sam. You get your wish.  
**Asian Persuasion:** Did you two talk yet?  
**Blonde Chameleon:** its bin like 24 h damn gurl chill  
**Asian Persuasion:** This is the sound of my fingers tapping impatiently.  
**Asian Persuasion:** DIAF.m4a, 1014 KB.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** lmao  
**Asian Persuasion:** I will cut you.  
**Blonde Chameleon:** luv u 2

There was no need for Sam to tell Tina what had happened during the drive back from New York. Even if he tried, it would probably come out all jumbled and just piss her off again. Besides, he and Blaine weren't done talking yet. Were they? He loved him, him loved he, and him apparently enjoyed the taste of Sam's semen. His best friend finally found that mp3 he'd been searching for. Aaaaaand yeah, the rest of the road trip had been all singing songs and keeping that smile on Blaine's face, instead of nailing down what was becoming of their friendship.

If he couldn't tell Tina, how was he going to explain it to his own parents?

Mary and Dwight Evans were patient people, and gave their eldest son plenty of space when it came to personal matters. They didn't pry into his business like some parents did, they waited for Sam to come to them. Which he had, when he asked them for advice on Blaine. Sam expected to receive a call from his mother any day, just to make sure that things were all right. And then he'd tell her that he's staying with the Andersons and 'Oh, by the way, accepting blowjobs from guys now. Love and kisses to Steve and Stace.'

Two hours later Sam found himself walking across the street from a Starbucks, into a specialty coffee shop which was not Starbucks. “That's where BARF meets,” Blaine whispered, pointing as they entered the Westerville equivalent of the Lima Bean.

“I'll have a nonfat, decaf... Scratch that. Just give me a small mocha. I haven't had enough calories today. Organic milk, please,” he told the barista. “And my friend will have a medium drip.”

As Sam reached into his pocket for his wallet, the barista made eye contact with Blaine and promptly waved his hand. “Please, Sir, this one's on me.” At least he knew now why his best friend was getting all the free shit. Seriously, everywhere. 

They took a table, and a few minutes later the barista brought their beverages to them. He set Sam's mug down without a second look, but gave Blaine a meaningful stare upon delivering his. The coffee saucer had a small folded paper on it, which his friend checked as the employee returned to his station. Since it wouldn't be a check, what then? A phone number?

“Do I need to hit this guy?” he asked the brunette.

“No.”

“What's that?”

“It's nothing, Sam.” Blaine said, folding the note and setting it back on his saucer.

“Hey look, it's open mic!” Sam identified the source of background music as a live performer, standing behind a microphone on a small stage in the corner of the shop. The performer had to be another customer. No way a coffee shop, even a small ma-and-pa shop, would pay for someone that tone deaf. Like, Sugar Motta tone deaf. He'd be surprised this place had any customers, with Starbucks right across the street. The song didn't end soon enough. With a handful of ruckus from another table, the performer re-joined her friends. 

“Let's show them how it's done?”

“I dunno, Sam. My throat's kinda raw.”

“Come on, sing with me! It'll be fun. I'll back you up? Five minutes, tops.” 

His Bucky conceded, and didn't see Cap slip the barista's note into his pocket as they stood from the table. He had no idea what the note said. It could be an invitation to tonight's meeting, he didn't know how the club worked. Okay, maybe Sam was being a little paranoid. But could you blame him? After everything they'd been through together, he just wanted to make sure nothing further happened to Blaine. Then again, the note could just be a phone number. If so, Blaine's disinterest and Sam's familiarity with his friend's type suggested the barista didn't have a chance. Sam wasn't jealous. Right?

He took his friend's hand (why did it feel weird this time?) and drew him to the stage, pulled Blaine's guitar out of thin air, sat himself down on a stool, and motioned for his partner in crime to take the microphone. The sound of Sam strumming strings vibrated through the shop and a born performer immediately recognized the melody, their voices combining marvelously as the previous singer's face fell in disgrace.

[ **What You Wish For (Guster)** ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EE5GH8znxoo)

Woke up today to everything gray  
And all that I saw just kept goin' on and on  
Sweep all the pieces under the bed  
Close all the curtains and cover my head  
And what you wish for won't come true  
You aren't surprised love, are you?

If this serenade (Repeat after me, just a little bit closer)  
Is not what you want (Do what I say, caught up in a lie)  
It's just how it is (Won't change a thing, got a little bit colder)  
It keeps going on and on  
Come out, come out wherever you are  
Would you do it all over right from the start?  
And what you wish for won't come true  
You aren't surprised love, are you?

Once had this dream, crashed down in Oz  
Not black and white, but where the colors are  
I never dreamed that I would let her go

And I will get what I deserve  
Keep all the secrets under the bed  
Open the curtains, forget what I said  
And what you wished for could come true  
You aren't surprised love, are you?

Besides the barista, the only other person who applauded their performance was a large, dark-skinned man. He'd entered the shop at the beginning of the second verse, and immediately took notice of Blaine. Now, he approached the stage with a wide grin of blindingly white teeth.

“Big Blaaaaaine, ha haaa!! You wanna box, Big Blaine?” boomed a resonant voice and playfully raised fists, with inflections exactly like Cooper's impression. Sam would have to re-evaluate the older man's acting skills.

Blaine smiled, though Sam saw it wasn't truly reflected in his eyes. “Hi, Mr. Hayward.” 

“'Mr. Hayward?' When did I become 'Mr. Hayward?' What happened to 'Uncle Jerry?' ”

“It's good to see you again, Uncle Jerry,” the brunette managed, before he was lifted off his feet in a bear hug.

“Das what I'm talkin' 'bout! Man kid, you grew up good!” He set Blaine down and sized him up. “Not as tall as Cooper, but you must kill with the ladies.”

Sam laughed. “He would, if he played for their team.”

Blaine waved Sam over and stood between them, the black man standing a good four inches taller than the not-blonde one. “Uncle Jerry, this is Sam, my best friend.”

He found his hand caught in an iron vice. “Jerry Hayward! I've known Blaine's dad since the good ol' days at Dalton.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hayward,” Sam squeaked, wondering if any bones in his hand were broken.

“What's wrong with you two? Save the 'Mr. Haywards' please. Only my coworkers call me that, and only the ones on my Bitch List.”

Blaine indicated which table he and Sam had, and let the old Anderson family friend order himself a coffee before joining them. “Dayam, so how long as it been? Wait, don't tell me. It will just make me feel old. I see you're still quite the singer. Did you two practice that number just for this ol' joint?”

“Practice? Hah!” Sam snorted. “Blaine doesn't need to practice. Any song he knows the lyrics to, he can perform flawlessly at the drop of a hat.”

“I guess all that time you spent on our karaoke machine paid off, huh? What about your chronology thing, do you still do that?” Sam wasn't sure what the man was talking about, and looked his confusion at Blaine. Jerry answered before his friend could. “This kid is the only kid I knew who knew what year any song was released.”

“What? Really?”

“Not when released. When I first heard it.”

“It's freaky. Go on, kid, show him.”

“I don't really want to...”

“Oh no, I gotta see this. It's on. What You Wish For by Guster. Go.”

Blaine sighed. “2001. I was six years old and heard it in the opening scene to the movie _Life As A House_ , starring Kevin Kline and Hayden Christensen.”

“Okay, bro, that's Star Wars trivia and I'm not going to count it. Goodbye To You by Michelle Branch.”

“Also 2001, featured on the Buffy the Vampire Slayer Season 6 episode _Tabula Rasa_.”

“Oh my God, stoppit! How did I not know this about you?”

“You're kidding right? Almost every playlist on my phone and tablet is just a year. Look,” Blaine said, pulling out his phone. “2014, 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010...”

“Dude, I thought that was a weird feature that Android phones had. What, I don't know! I've only ever had iPhones!”

Jerry's slapped his knee, laughing. “His mother is the same way. Did Todd ever tell you about the time she pissed off Kesha? That's my wife, Lakesha. So, Todd and I had just re-connected—we lost track of each other after Dalton. Pre-Facebook days. I think you must have been four or five at the time. I was all, 'Bring the fam over for dinner,' and he was all, 'Aiight, coo.' Kesha made chocolate mousse pie, and Cooper loved to dip pickles in it. Yeah, that's right, I said pickles.

“Anyway, after dinner I was trying to clean up the table and your dad was showing Cooper how to set up the karaoke machine. We thought the womenfolk had gone off to the bathroom to talk about lady things or make sure Jane was still asleep, when all of a sudden Kesha started screaming. Turns out that Pam didn't like the way our music and movies were organized, and started putting them all in chronological order! Oh, my baby was pisssssed.”

“So _that's_ why it always took forever to find DVDs at yours. I thought they were arranged alphabetically!”

Now it was Jerry's turn to look confused, but Blaine provided a succinct explanation. “Sam occasionally still has problems with his dyslexia.” 

It went on like that for about an hour. Sam heard some new stories from Blaine's childhood that none of the Anderson's had shared with him. The two shared their differing yet similar experiences from their time at Dalton Academy. Then Jerry smoothly guided the conversation to more personal topics.

“So, you're not into girls. Any special man in your life? Or you just been leavin' a trail of broken hearts?”

A foot moved under the table, made contact with Sam's shoe, and Blaine somehow adeptly avoided giving a complete answer to that question. Sure, maybe he didn't want to lay out his entire personal life right this second, but weren't we here to ask for Jerry's help? He seemed like a good enough guy. It took Sam a moment, but eventually he realized that he wasn't providing emotional support. What he was providing, was a distraction.

Sam extricated himself from their conversation, with a gentle pat to Blaine's shoulder. The brunette stopped mid-sentence to ask, “Where are you going?”

“I need to stretch my legs. I think I'm going to check out that glass blowing place next to the Starbucks across the street.”

“Okay, we can-”

“No,” Sam asserted, but made sure the tone of his voice and expression in his eye communicated only concern and trust. “You guys stay. I'll be back in a few minutes. Don't either of you leave. When I get back, the next round's on me.”

He knew Blaine understood why he was leaving and as he walked towards the door, he heard his best friend say, “Actually, Uncle Jerry, I was engaged for a while...” 

“One stage of your journey is over. Another begins.” His impression of Gandalf earned him a giggle from a passing girl as he exited the shop. Pleased with himself, Sam made his way to the crosswalk and shoved his hands into his pockets. His fingers made contact with the barista's note, almost forgotten. 

He pulled it out and opened it. It was neither a phone number, nor an invitation, at least not that he could discern. It read simply, 'His Name Is Blaine Anderson,' and was signed 'Project Dalton.'


	20. Forever

[**Forever (Vertical Horizon)**](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nrHmQFFB3I)

Take these roses off of me  
Let me live, let me be for a little while  
Let my eyes see everything and nothing in their time  
I do not mind

Who'd have guessed I'd ever learn  
To let the walls around me burn, light up the hillside  
My words, I ate them for so long and nothing changed  
It was just the same

And I don't know if you see me here  
But I can tell you your face is clear  
I will see you, forever

Call me close once again  
Call me teacher, call me friend, just like the first time  
Call my name, it echoes in the walls around this room  
It's all you

And I wanted you to be everything to me  
But now I've got to learn to carry on  
I know I cannot hide this emptiness inside  
Nothing is the same since you've gone

I don't know if you hear me there  
When it's darkest and no one cares  
I will hear you, forever

Forever, I will feel you forever  
Forever, I will hear you forever  
Forever, I will see you forever  
Forever

Sam's eyes rolled, his head tilted at an angle somewhere between amused, sympathetic, and bored. His conversation with Ryder Lynn just seemed to be dragging on.

It had been a day since they'd returned from New York. From what Blaine shared with him yesterday, the rest of the coffee date with Jerry went about as well as Sam could have hoped. Blaine agreed to meet Jerry twice a week at his office for real counseling sessions in a private setting, as opposed to casual coffee in public. He needn't be concerned with payment, as the sessions would be free of charge. “What the-?” Sam demanded, as his friend described the arrangement during the car ride home. “He's in Fight Club, too? Is there anyone who isn't? Maybe I should start going.”

“Not because of Fight Club,” Blaine clarified. “He's a family friend, remember?”

It wasn't possible, even for a professional, experienced psychotherapist, to diagnose Blaine's condition over a single coffee meeting. He could be suffering from a major clinical depression, bicycle mania (though Sam didn't really understand what bikes had to do with anything), some other chronic mood imbalance, or none of the above. Whether or not his best friend would require antidepressants had yet to be determined.

“Would that be so bad?” he'd asked on the ride home, seeing the reluctance in Blaine's body language.

“I'm not sure I want to take drugs, Sam.”

“Even if they're supposed to help?”

“I guess it would depend on what he prescribes, if anything. I don't want to get addicted, or have any weird side effects.”

“Side effects?”

“I dunno, like blackouts or hallucinations. Stuff like that. I'd have to Google it.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I'll support you. If you don't want to take anything, you don't have to. You're already addicted to something way better, anyway.”

“You?”

“Me.”

“Stupid,” the shorter man accused fondly. “Anyway, he suggested for now that I should concentrate on the things I love most, like music. Maybe tie some loose ends, clean out the trash, or try something new. Just like, change it up and not stay cooped up in the house.”

Ugh, change. Here we go again with the change. Why couldn't things just hold steady for a little while? “Like what?”

“I think I'm gonna get rid of my bowties.”

Struck with disbelief, Sam didn't notice the Green Whale pull up to the Anderson house until Blaine came around and knocked on the passenger side window. “They remind me of Kurt. Until I transferred to McKinley, to be with Kurt, I hadn't worn a bowtie since I was four.”

The not-blonde followed him back into the house. “Well, I said it before and I'll say it again: the bowties make you look uptight. And kinda like a young Orville Redenbacher. Hey, maybe you want to take glass blowing lessons with me? That place next to Starbucks was pretty cool.”

That evening, dinner with Blaine's parents revolved around their escapade to New York and describing the meeting with Jerry Hayward. Sam left most of the story to Blaine, not knowing how much would be shared and not trusting himself to be discreet with details. Sam knew he had a tendency to ramble, especially when he was uncomfortable. Like that time in New York when he'd met up with Mercedes and her backup singers for dinner. He'd tried a bit too hard to be charming, and as a result almost broke up with her.

Now, what reason did he have to be uncomfortable in the Anderson house? It couldn't be that the mouth Blaine used to kiss his mother had been stuffed with dick that morning. His dick. _Mr. and Mrs. A, your baby boy sure knows how to give an awesome brojob._ That's what he decided to call it from now on: a 'brojob.' 

The taller man figured that how many more brojobs there'd be depended on how good of a therapist Jerry was. It would be Jerry's fault if Blaine had to suck his dick a few more times. Cap tried not to think about if he preferred his Bucky's recovery to go faster or slower. On the one hand, he was actually kinda surprised that he could keep it up with a guy, and thought back to Cooper's advice; how far was Sam willing to take this? More to the point, how much would Blaine ask for? On the other hand, Blaine Anderson's mouth felt really, _really_ good. 

Also entrenched in the network of Dalton Academy alums, Jerry, too, had heard they were hiring a graduate adviser for the Warblers this year and encouraged Blaine to apply. The pair had filled out Blaine's online application together after dinner, then fallen asleep killing Jake and Ryder on Halo. That was more or less the only reason why Sam came to Ryder's mind today, as he continued to pine after Marley Rose—who still wasn't returning his calls.

“Seriously Ryder,” he drolled into his phone, “it might be time to move on. Marley's a sweet girl, but she's not the only fish in the sea.” _Wise, I am._

He'd been on the phone with the former-New Directions member ever since he and Blaine finished lunch. Although over a cell phone speaker wasn't exactly the best way to gauge the quality of a performance, Ryder wanted Sam's input on the song. He was a drummer, so it had to be accompanied by a karaoke sound track, which Ryder intended to serenade Marley with at her house.

“So you don't like it then?” He could practically hear the jock's shoulders slumping.

Sitting next to him at the pool in the backyard, with his feet dipped into water, Blaine's phone vibrated for the nine-hundred and forty-seventh time in less than twenty-four hours. Even on silent, covered in a thick waterproof case, and buried in his friend's pocket, Sam could feel it moving moments before Blaine pulled it out. The brunette stood to answer it, walking back to the kitchen. What he said, though, was, “I'm going to grab some of Mom's salted caramel custard from the fridge. You want?”

Sam nodded, but gave no other indication that he cared about who or what was being sent to Blaine's phone. He shouldn't care, it was unbrolike. After all, Sam had spent at least half an hour on the phone with Ryder and Blaine hadn't shown any sign of impatience or inappropriate curiosity. But those messages had started coming yesterday, after they left the coffee shop with the barista from Fight Club, who'd given Blaine that cryptic note.

“Was that Blaine?”

“Yeah, I'm actually staying with him in Westerville for a bit.”

“How's he doing? Last time I saw him I couldn't tell if he was pissed at me or hitting on me.”

“I think he's going to be all right, man.” Sam felt no need to share any additional information beyond that. Ryder wasn't Tina, and even she hadn't been told everything yet. 

“Do you guys maybe want to meet up later this afternoon? Jake and I are driving down that way. He said he has something to take my mind off of Marley, but he's been all secretive about it. Like, 'It's not something I can tell you about, you have to discover it first hand' or some bullshit.”

“Hey, hold on a sec,” Sam requested as his phone chirped. Upon unlocking its screen he was blindsided by an accidental message from his ex-girlfriend Brittany, intended for her current girlfriend Santana.

**Human Brain:** Miss you already. Lobsters for life. Call when you get home. 

Attached to the message was a selfie of Brittany, naked. Taken from bed-level, the camera captured her beautiful smile and smoldering eyes nestled above voluptuous, exposed breasts. Smooth, hairless skin went from here to there covering the curve of shapely thighs. Between them, slick with desire and halfway entombed in the pink flesh of her cavernous depths, was a large cucumber.

A moan escaped his lips before Sam could stop it. His dick swelled in his pants with a rush of blood, bulging obviously in his trunks. God damn, the girl was sexy. “Ryder, sorry, I've gotta go,” he said, hanging up and fumbling in his pockets for the kazoo. 

By the time he found it and gave it a hard blow, Blaine was already standing next to him with two small plastic bowls of salted caramel custard. “Uh, hi?”

A spoon dipped into salted, creamy- A wet tongue wrapped around- Oh fuck this! Climbing to his feet, Sam cared not at all for the dessert that went flying onto the pavement as he grasped Blaine behind the knees, flipping the shorter man upside-down as he was swept into the air, to hang with his face dangling next to Sam's very swollen erection.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Blaine closed the door to his room carefully, making as little noise as possible as he tiptoed across the hallway. At this hour, there was no reason why anyone in the house should still be awake. His parents, lacking the energy reserves of youth, climbed into bed every weeknight exactly one hour after cleaning up dinner. Thirty minutes were spent reading whatever they fancied, and by eleven they would be deeply slumbering.

The only sound he heard for a while were crickets and the eerie creaking of the house settling. He'd laid on top of his comforter, Sam next to him having passed out playing Xbox (again). Listening to Sam's breath, re-reading the conversation he'd been having with Spencer Porter through text.

**Blaine Anderson:** What is Project Dalton?

Justifying his fear of the side effects of psychiatric medication, using BARF to deflect his emotional instability also resulted in an unintended, off-target byproduct: a civil war.

Perhaps an exaggeration on the teen's part, the gist of it remained applicable. A new faction had formed in the club, comprised primarily by current Dalton Academy students, Dalton alumni, and any participating relatives. They were purists, insisting that Jake Puckerman and the Lima residents who expanded the DAFC beyond its original scope were blemishes tarnishing a proud Dalton tradition.

**Blaine Anderson:** But you don't attend Dalton.  
**Spencer Porter:** I don't care. I can still agree with them.  
**Spencer Porter:** This thing has grown too big.  
**Spencer Porter:** It's going to get out of control real fast.  
**Spencer Porter:** And Jake is getting more power hungry every day.

Defeating Blaine “Killer” Anderson was like conquering a legend. When you conquer a legend, you become a legend yourself, and take one step closer to godhood. So on one side, Jake and Hunter Clarington (now Jake's right hand) had a core group of loyal followers blindly following them as they began to make sweeping declarations that betrayed the intended spirit of Blaine and the original founders of the club.

On the other side Skylar, a Dalton upper classman and incumbent head of the Warbler Council for the Class of 2015, led the dissident movement that felt Blaine had been treated unfairly. No one but Sam knew Blaine lost his fights intentionally. Spencer himself had been thrilled for the opportunity to fight him and, like Jake, been disappointed when Blaine went down too easily. The founder's last match before he abruptly stopped attending was against Hunter. They'd all watched as the former-military school student took his revenge on half of the dynamic duet which exposed the infamous Warbler steroid stunt. The same stunt which got Hunter expelled and risked both the Warblers' and Dalton's reputations. 

Project Dalton would strive to ensure that no participant would ever again be victim to personal vendettas, to formalize the club as a school-endorsed “self-defense” program that provided protective gear, to reign in the club to the jurisprudence of Dalton Academy, and to preserve the heritage and birthright of the prestigious school. Forever.

**Spencer Porter:** If Sebastian were here, he'd be on our side.  
**Spencer Porter:** He really thought highly of you.  
**Spencer Porter:** And I do, too.  
**Spencer Porter:** Give me the chance to prove it to you.  
**Spencer Porter:** Tonight, midnight  
**Blaine Anderson:** Where are you meeting?  
**Spencer Porter:** Where else?  
**Spencer Porter:** Dalton.

Careful to move as stealthily as possible, Blaine crept down the stairs and grabbed his shoes. The handle made no noise as he turned it, slowing pulling the door open just wide enough for him to squeeze through, then pulling it shut and locking it before heading to his car. He almost screamed when the dark silhouette of a tall figure standing in the driveway blocked his path.

“Going somewhere, Mister?”

“Jesus-! What the hell, Sam?”

His best friend held a finger to his lips, and gestured towards the car. “Unless you want to wake your parents?”

“What are you doing?” Blaine demanded, as soon as they were safe within the confines of his vehicle. “I thought you were asleep. How did you-?”

“Yeah, like this is the first window I've crawled through, or that I couldn't tell something was going down. It was Spencer, wasn't it? Sending you all those messages?”

“You promised you wouldn't stop me if I wanted to go back to BARF.”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure I promised to go with you if you did.”

“You don't have to.”

“Neither do you.”

Something inside Blaine flared, something familiar, as if for a moment he was remembering himself. “Yes, I do.”

“Blaine-”

Eager to get on the road, he gave his friend the short version of the story, then exclaimed, “I will _not_ sulk in my room while others fight some ridiculous battle about me!”

As Blaine turned the ignition key and pulled away from the house, turning it toward his old school, Sam smiled and said, “Sometimes I like it when you cray cray.”


	21. Fight Song (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very, very sorry that it's been so long since my last update. Real life, blah blah blah. But it's Blam week, and I promised y'all that I haven't abandoned this fic. I really wanted this chapter to be substantially longer, but I decided to split it and post what I've been sitting on, and promise that I will at least TRY to finish Part 2 this week.

Sam once described Dalton Academy as 'Death Star meets Mordor meets Temple of Doom.' At the time, he'd suggested this as an exaggeration. It most certainly was not.

Resembling some of kind baroque French chateau – a word which he could not spell but only pronounce, and only because of _Bon Voyage, Charlie Brown_ – the three-story school boasted some of Westerville's oldest architecture and interior design. On the outside, a brick veneer stretching taller than the surrounding trees was topped by a mansard roof of slate. Large French doors accented with wrought iron balconies and arch-topped windows spanned across the entire facade that faced the street. The place was certainly an impressive sight wrapped in all the colors and sounds of daylight, trumpeting invitation, prestige, and accomplishment like a fanfare. In the cold darkness of night, the enigmatic music of crickets the only sound, imposing Dalton looked as impenetrable as every enemy stronghold that had ever needed infiltrating. If Ryder Lynn squinted, he could almost feel the evil sorceress standing atop the battlements preparing to turn he and Jake into pigs.

What the hell were they doing here? “Hey Jake?”

Young Puckerman shifted his car into park and turned off the ignition. “Yeah?”

“What the hell are we doing here?”

“I told you, we're taking your mind off Marley.”

“You said we were going to play paintball and then grab some Starbucks. Then his asshat appears out of nowhere and we're suddenly going to Dalton. Oh, yeah, that reminds me.” Motioning with a thumb gesture to the passenger in the backseat, “The fuck?”

“Something came up and I had a slight change of plans,” Jake muttered, somewhere between a whine and a plea. 

“It's late, man. By the time we get home it'll be like two in the morning. Can't we just go home?”

Behind him, Hunter Clarington didn't even bother to look up from the extreme amount of texting he was doing. “What's wrong, princess? Is Jake's car actually a pumpkin?”

“Was I talking to you?”

“Ryder,” Jake interrupted, “Hunter and I just have something we need to take care of.”

Ryder couldn't believe his best friend had just said those words. His arms flew up in confusion. “Since when do you even hang out with this guy?”

“It's complicated. Can't you just go with me on this one?”

“If it were just you, I would.”

Sighing impatiently, the backseat passenger shoved his phone into a pocket. “If you can't control your woman, maybe he should stay in the car.”

Ryder rolled his eyes. “Yep, calling me a woman makes you a tough guy.”

“Shut up, both of you!” Jake exclaimed, giving each a stern eye. “Look, you can either come with us and do something interesting for the next fifteen minutes, or you can sit in the parking lot of Nockmaar Fortress.”

“Breaking and entering into a private school attended by the wealthiest teenagers in all of Ohio isn't my idea of fun, Channing.”

Inside, the manor was all marble floors and spectacular painted murals, golden mahogany and carved mouldings. Beneath the skylight in the southern foyer rose the graceful, curved staircase where Blaine Anderson had proposed to the love of his life. That extravagant proposal had been Ryder's first and only visit to Dalton Academy before tonight.

During his last year at McKinley before being transferred (exiled) to Lima High, he'd walked the fine line between popular football jock and New Directions outcast. Upon joining the glee club he'd met Blaine, who spent much of that year broken up from Kurt. Now there was a man whom Ryder never felt inclined to befriend. It wasn't that he was gay. Blaine was gay, and Ryder liked him well enough. Unique was gay (No, transvestite... transgender? Whatever the right word.) and, although the catfishing thing made him furious, eventually he came to actually like her as a person. He'd even grown used to referring to her as 'her.'

But the few, brief encounters he'd had with Kurt left Ryder with the distinct impression that they had nothing in common, and likely never would. Kurt was fashion debutantes, broadway, and New York socialites. Ryder was girls, games, and sports. At least he and Blaine had two of the three in common. Ryder never really understood that whole relationship but, well, it wasn't his to understand. Hashtag shrug.

“You know that part in Final Fantasy 7, when you're searching for Aeris at the City of the Ancients because she's left to chase down Sephiroth on her own, and that eerie song which is the sound of hesitation and impending doom warns you that something terrible is about to happen?” Ryder asked. “Yeah, that's what's happening in my head right now.” 

“At least you're not thinking about Marley.”

Jake was right. He was too worried about getting caught by a security guard, or having his soul sucked out by a dementor, to think about her.

The three continued creeping down the unlit hallways, Hunter taking the lead, without another word between them. They finally reached a section of the building that Ryder thought looked remotely familiar, moonlight streaming cold through the windows. They were lurking just outside the Warblers' choir room, where soft voices Ryder didn't know spoke clearly into the stillness.

As Jake and Hunter moved to hug the wall, he supposed they were here to eavesdrop.

“That's not what Project Dalton will be about. But I think each of you already knew that, otherwise you wouldn't be here tonight.” 

A rumble of murmured agreement.

“And I'm glad you are. What happened to Blaine Anderson was a travesty. A mockery of the Dalton tradition upon which BARF was built. Jake and Hunter have warped us, sullied our good names, reduced us to a group of organized bullies. Their most recent assignment will assault our beloved Dalton itself. We cannot allow this to be carried out.”

He poked Jake in the arm. “What the hell are they talking about?”

Instead of responding to Ryder, his friend cursed and broke his position when Hunter announced himself at the doorway. “Well, well, well! What do we have here?”

Fifty guys, maybe more, occupied the choir room, crunched up by the windows and piano, huddled by the shadowed fireplace and mahogany desk, seated on leather couches, squatting on the floor. Ryder thought he might recognize one guy, a Lima Bean barista. Other than that... wait, was that Spencer Porter over there? Other than that, he wasn't familiar with any of them, much less the one standing in the center of it all.

Maybe two or three inches shorter than he and Jake, stood a teen roughly their age with raven black hair gelled to near-flatness (like Blaine) and not even a hint of facial hair. What Ryder noticed wasn't how well the boy filled out his long-sleeved, Dalton-colored tee shirt, but the commanding presence he had over the others. Even those on their feet seemed to be looking up at him with admiration somehow. As Hunter and Jake moved slowly into the room, some of the seated rose and took flanking positions at the boy's side.

“Skylar,” Jake sighed, clearly exasperated. “I should have guessed.”

The raven-haired boy in the center folded his hands before him with a sickly sweet smile and condescending head tilt. “Jake. I hope your attendance at this meeting means what I know it doesn't. I see you've brought your lapdog.”

“This dog has a few tricks he's going to be teaching you real soon.”

Not following the exchange, and not really caring to, Ryder got right up in his best friend's face. “Allright dude, seriously enough! Will you tell me what's going on here? Who are these guys, why did they say that about you, and what happened to Blaine?”

Eyebrows lifted, the one called Skylar offered pedantically, “I haven't seen you around before. You must be new. I guess your friends here didn't tell you. Spencer, would you care to enlighten him for us, please?”

The McKinley football player, with whom Ryder had played on the same team for a season, stood at Skylar's side with the sternest of expressions. “Hunter beat the crap out of Blaine.”

“WHAT?”

“That's a misrepresentation. You, yourself, had a go at Blaine and won. He came to BARF of his own free will. No one forced him to step into the circle.”

Spencer's eyes narrowed as he recalled the scene to memory. “Yeah, but when I won I stopped. And so did Jake. So did everyone else that Blaine matched up against, except you. No one forced you to continue kicking him after he went unconscious.”

“Clearly in violation of Rule #3, which Jake conveniently skipped over when he recited the rules that night.”

“It wasn't a fight anymore, it was a bashing. If we hadn't stopped you, you could've also broken Rule #8: No permanent physical damage. You're lucky he's not paralyzed.”

“Paralyzed? Oh please. Yeah, I went a little overboard. The kid and his friend got me expelled! I had to finish my senior year of high school at Lima High, because my old military academy in Colorado Springs wouldn't take me back. Do you know how that looked on my college applications? I didn't get into any of my top choices, so I'm still stuck here in butt fuck Ohio. My life got completely screwed. I had a right to be pissed.”

“No member of BARF, not even its leader, is inviolate. You have a problem? You leave it at the door. This is not your personal venue to exact vengeance.” Every single member of Project Dalton nodded their heads at Skylar's words.

Ryder pushed Jake by the shoulders, the darker man holding back from reacting. “I can't believe you let this happen! Why didn't you defend him? Blaine was your friend!”

“Correction,” came a familiar voice, “he _is_ my friend.”

A wave of confused 'oohs' and 'whaaaats' washed over the Warblers' choir room, most unclear how so many people had stumbled upon the secret meeting time and place. For Ryder, the new arrivals were reinforcements to a situation that he had no control over. Maybe the night had a chance of ending sanely after all.

Behind the three who had disrupted Project Dalton's meeting now stood two others: a tall not-blonde and a short brunette.

“Ryder, you shouldn't be here,” Sam Evans said to him with a pat on the shoulder.

“Yeah well, I am. For reference, though, this isn't what I meant by 'meeting up later.' ”

“I know. It's good to see you, bud.”

Hunter sighed impatiently. “Can we skip the New Directions mini-reunion and get on with it? I have things to do.”

Beside him, Jake looked confused. “Get on with what?”

“The exposition. This is the part where you break down because Blaine still values your friendship, and you tell them all about how you're the victim and not the villain, and everyone is shocked and covers their mouth and realizes that you, too, have just been a pawn in a brilliantly nefarious ploy. Ugh, I'd smoke pot if it didn't dull my hatred.”

Everyone turned first to Jake, then to Blaine for clarification. Those who'd ever been in the same class with Blaine at either Dalton or McKinley, or been tutored on any subject by the high school valedictorian were accustomed to seeking his explanation when they didn't understand something. “Hunter's been manipulating Jake to get what he wants out of BARF.” 

Ryder looked to Sam, who shrugged with no less confusion than before his best friend spoke. But for Spencer and Skylar, this seemed to make perfect sense. The Jake that modified the rules ever so slightly each night, gave out questionable 'assignments,' wasn't the Jake that the DAFC appointed as its new leader—the Jake who renamed fight club 'Blaine's Army, Resistance is Futile' out of respect for his friend and an odd dinner conversation. In fact, it more closely resembled the man who tried to coerce Blaine to transfer back to Dalton during his senior year. Hunter had almost destroyed the Warblers by first gaining their confidence, then getting them all onto performance enhancing steroids just to beat Finn's team.

“The Jake who picked me up after every fight to make sure I was okay, that guy's still my friend.”

There was no way Jake was cooperating with Hunter voluntarily. There had to be some kind of blackmail involved. Ryder had to ask, “What's he got over you, man?”

Reluctant at first, Jake threw his arms in the air with pent up frustration. “I just fucked the wrong girl, okay? Hunter found out and threatened to tell her father.”

“... Wait, seriously that's all?”

“It's more complicated than that. Look, I don't want to get into this here. I didn't come here to start a fight, I came here to stop one. What I want is for all of us to leave before the cops show up.”

Hunter smirked, amused eyebrows curled. “And why would the cops be showing up, Jake?”

“Because if one of the residents outside Dalton didn't notice all the suspicious activity happening at the school this late at night in the middle of summer, then someone here has taken advantage of the distraction to call 9-1-1,” Jake said expectantly, arms crossed with a smile. 

As he looked over the gathered crowd, he watched each shake their head individually. “Oh come on, people!!”

“It doesn't matter. We've got your back, dude.” 

Blaine, Sam, Ryder, Spencer, and Skylar all came to stand beside Jake and confront their true adversary. Blaine spoke for them. “Whatever you had planned for tonight, you failed.”

“Someone wants his ass kicked again.”

An easy grin. “We'll see.”

[ **Fight Song (Rachel Platten)** ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xo1VInw-SKc)

And all those things I didn't say  
Wrecking balls inside my brain  
I will scream them loud tonight  
Can you hear my voice this time?

This is my fight song  
Take back my life song  
Prove I'm alright song  
My power's turned on  
Starting right now I'll be strong  
I'll play my fight song  
And I don't really care if nobody else believes  
'Cause I've still got a lot of fight left in me  


The former New Directions picked up old habits easily. Jake and Ryder paired off, Blaine and Sam paired off, each moving synchronously as if they'd done so their entire lives. Each alternating a declaration that they were taking back control of their lives. Yawning through the performance, Hunter Clarington took a swipe of his phone and held it to his ear. Smirking like Voldemort poised to invade Hogwarts with an army of Death Eaters, he ordered simply, “Begin.”

And the empty, tranquil halls of Dalton Academy were invaded by the clamor of footsteps and boot heels.


End file.
